


Disinherited

by emilywaters1976



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Azkaban, Complete, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 42,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilywaters1976/pseuds/emilywaters1976
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In a minute there is time<br/>For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"</p>
<p>(AU beginning at the duel in HBP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Accioslash, my incredible beta, to Tavvitar, my muse. 
> 
> I gratefully acknowledge my influences:  
> – Starcrossedgirl, whose fic “In Perpetuity” is something that makes me fall in love with Snarry all over again, whenever I re-read it  
> -Mavis Claire: the beginning of her fanfic “De Profundus” was the inspiration for one of the episodes in this story  
> -Sacrelige: Her Snape from “Freedom” is the one that I am reminded of whenever I attempt to write my own Snape.

***

There’s no telling how long he was unconscious. It could have been hours, or days. The final Avada that had emerged from his wand seems to have done more than killed Dumbledore; it all but separated Snape from his entire life up to this point. 

He is lying on his back, bound securely, unable to move a muscle, unable to so much as flinch against the sharp agony of his wounds – three fiery tracks left in his chest by the Hippogriff’s claws. 

Snape scowls, realizing that the cold, damp surface underneath him seems to be swaying and lurching now and then. 

Can’t be: a thought, childish in its helplessness, crosses his mind, just as Snape opens his eyes.

The sky above him is charcoal-grey; clouds hang low, heavy with rain, ready to pour down any moment. A gush of wind throws a spray of ice-cold water into his face. He licks his lips, tasting the salt. 

“... and just like that?”

“The orders are to take him directly to Azkaban. What else is there to do?”

The voices are coming from somewhere above him, but the people talking—guards, presumably—are just outside of his field of vision. 

“Well, a trial is needed, no? At the very least, an investigation…”

“No need. Didn’t you hear me? Potter saw the entire thing. The Death Eaters, captured at the school later, confirmed it. His wand was examined…”

Snape shuts his eyes. To lose a duel to a mere sixth-year was… shameful, to say the least. Then again, he wasn’t exactly anticipating one of Hagrid’s monsters rushing to Potter’s rescue. Snape finds the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. Perhaps, it is Potter’s unenviable destiny: to be watched over by a monster of one sort or another… 

The strangest thing in this entire series of misfortunes is that Potter didn’t finish him off in the heat of the moment, but did the proper thing – handed him over to the authorities. “Gryffindor to the very end…” 

“Well,” the first voice continues to drone, “if it were me making the decisions, I’d want to speak to Dumbledore’s portrait. Just in case, you know.” 

“Ah well, no chance of that now. Someone had a bright idea to cast Fiendfyre on the office. All gone now, and not just the portraits.”

“And the fire being elemental, no chance of restoration?”

“Exactly so. Lucky the rest of the school’s still standing…”

“Won’t stand long without Dumbledore. Who did they capture?”

“Bellatrix, Dolohov, Greyback. Someone alerted the Order that the Death Eaters were about to enter the school, thank Merlin for small favours.”

The conversation ends abruptly, as the boat is met with a rough patch of the ocean. Snape finds himself chilled to the bone as he realizes that not only the only proof of his innocence is gone, but likely any aid Dumbledore had left for Potter. 

The question remains – what to do now?

Azkaban is an odd place these days, teeming with those loyal to the Ministry as well as those loyal to the Dark Lord, and it is quite impossible to tell which one is which. 

Then again, Snape reasons, all of this is just a temporary setback. He knows that the Dark Lord is planning another breakout of his supporters from Azkaban, and that will be happening soon. It should be an easy enough task to endure a few months, not attract any undue attention, keep a low profile … though Merlin knows, the Dark Lord will not be pleased – he despises failure of any sort. What if… 

_What if he doesn’t appoint you the Headmaster?_

The treacherous thought enters his mind, but Snape wills it away quickly. It’s too dreadful to contemplate – that all of this might have been for naught… and, when all is said and done, he won’t even get the chance to protect the school in the year to come. 

No, Snape convinces himself, that will not happen. He’s needed out there, he will find his way back, somehow. 

He’ll find a way to rejoin the ranks of the Order, he will do whatever it takes. He will find Potter, aid him in whatever way he can… and then, when the time is right, he will give him that one final message that will bring the war to its conclusion…

_The boy must die._

The memory of that conversation burns a fiery track of its own across his chest; that he’s the one who will be delivering the message to Potter seems yet another Unforgivable… and perhaps, the fates thought so too, making him pay his dues in Azkaban before he can be permitted to do that. 

So be it, Snape thinks. He will do what he must, it is only a matter of time.

***

Time in Azkaban turns out to have a strange quality to it – it stretches in segments that can be measured only in “forevers”. It takes them forever to lift Snape off the floor of the boat, remove his bindings, throw him face down onto the barnacle-covered pier, the sharp segments scraping his cheek raw and bloody. He remains silent, simply exhales through gritted teeth.

“Delivery accepted,” a voice is heard, “which one is this?”

“Snape. He killed Dumbledore.” 

“Ah.” 

The voices above him sound indifferent, businesslike. Likely none of the guards cares one way or another – Azkaban is its own world, its own country, the affairs of the war must seem quite distant from this vantage point…

A moment later, Snape lets out his first howl since the moment he’d regained consciousness: someone’s boot comes crashing down on the fingers of his right hand... 

“Begging yer pardon, sir,” the voice above him has a definite note of mockery to it. “So many fingers lyin’ around here, ye understand, stepping on some’s unavoidable.” 

“Enough. You’re enjoying this too much,” another voice thunders, deep and loud. “Prisoner, on your feet. Follow me.”

It takes Snape a while to lift himself off the ground, to orient himself. The sky and the sea behind him merge together into a veil of dark-grey mist. There’s no horizon, there’s no mainland, there’s only the mist behind him, and the solid-rock walls of Azkaban ahead. 

Snape stumbles forward, cradling his injured hand against his wounded chest. 

It is a dark maze of seemingly infinite hallways, a labyrinth that is barely lit, reeking of human waste and decay. Scarcely able to see, Snape follows the guard; two others trail behind him. He privately wonders if he should have taken his chances back at the pier, jumped into the ocean, attempted to swim back to the mainland, no matter how slim the chance of success…

Had it been only him and his own life at stake, he likely would have tried. Yet now, he’s got no right to take chances of this sort. He needs to stay alive, to get out… 

The cell they take him is small. It is also occupied – someone’s already lying on the narrow bed, blanket covering the emaciated figure almost fully. The someone doesn’t even stir when the cell door opens with a loud screeching of metal against the stone. 

For the longest time, Snape simply stares at his motionless cellmate, wondering if they’d end up fighting over the bed, blankets, rations… and a moment later, it hits him – the stench. No, there will be no fighting, after all. 

“I thought I told you to remove the body,” the first guard doesn’t turn around. 

“Got busy. No matter, we’ll take it out now.” 

The corpse is lifted off the bed and dragged out of the cell. Snape catches a glimpse of an arm, hanging limp, greyish flesh showing from under the tattered rags of the prison garb. 

Nobody bothers to clean or change the blankets after the dead body is removed. Someone gives him a shove to his back, and Snape takes one step forward. Into the cell. 

“Strip,” the next order follows. 

Snape turns around to face the guards. There are four of them. The tall one, the one who’d given Snape the order to follow, the chubby one, a parchment and a quill in his hand, and two others, barely visible in the dusk.

The fingers of one hand broken, the other – numb, stripping turns out to be an impossible task. The guards grow impatient with his fumbling and take charge of the situation, two of them hold Snape by the shoulders, a third one removes his clothes. The shirt is as good as glued to him, caked blood around the torn flesh holding on to the fabric. When the shirt is ripped off his chest, the wounds reopen, and Snape howls again, going limp in the arms holding him up. He barely notices that he’s stark naked, trousers, underwear, boots, shirt and all gathered into a bag and sealed up. Blood trickles down his chest and belly and to the floor. 

“Maybe we should take him to the infirmary,” the guard with the parchment and the quill suggests, as he makes notes. 

Someone’s calloused thumb touches the injuries on Snape’s chest. 

“No need to bother the medics with such nonsense. He’ll be fine.” 

A grey prison robe is thrown on the bed. 

“Get dressed or not, makes no difference,” he’s advised. 

The one with the scroll makes a note and announces, “Prisoner number sixteen thousand three hundred eighty-four, intake complete.” 

They exit the cell one by one. 

Still naked, Snape leans against one of the walls, trying to catch his breath, then, his knees give and he finds himself sliding to sit on the ice-cold stone floor. 

“Water,” he manages to utter a single plea, just before he’s left alone. 

The tallest guard stops in the doorway.

“Food and water arrive in the morning,” he advises him. “That’s another twelve hours.” 

“Please.” 

It vexes him - having to beg, and yet… the need to survive and find his way back outweighs the pride. 

“Twelve hours.” The door slams shut. 

***

Despite the threat of twelve hours, the water arrives mere minutes later – a large basin someone shoves through the half-opened door and slides across the floor to him. For the longest time, Snape stares at it, then takes a deep breath and begins to examine his surroundings. 

The floor space of the cell is modest, the ceilings are high, barely visible in the dark. No close-stool here, just a slop-bucket in one of the corners; it is covered with a heavy lid, and Snape doesn’t dare to lift it until absolutely necessary. 

The narrow window, metal bars and all, is at least nine feet above the floor level. The small patch of sky showing in it is already pitch-black. The smell of salt hangs in the air, almost overpowering the stench coming from the narrow prison-bed and the blankets piled on it. 

For a short while Snape wonders what will win over – the squeamishness or the need to stay warm. A long minute later he heads to the bed, shakes the blankets out the best he can, turns the thin mattress over and decides that this will have to do. The prison robe is long, and seems reasonably clean. Snape picks it up and heads to the basin with water. 

Snape drinks first, then uses the rest of the water to clean his wounds. It takes all of his effort not to howl, or whimper – and there’s no pride here, just the fear that if he doesn’t hold back now, he’ll be a sobbing mess before nightfall and will not know how to stop. 

He isn’t quite certain what to do with his broken hand, and eventually settles for tearing a thin strip from the only bedsheet, and using it to tie the fingers together to form a makeshift cast. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but it’s the best he can manage, so he doesn’t waste any time thinking whether it will heal properly, or how soon. 

He climbs into the bed and under the blankets, and resolves to rest. 

The ocean roars and thunders outside, waves beating against the rock walls of the prison. Snape shuts his eyes, trying to focus just on that – and nothing else. 

Not surprisingly, he dreams of Albus. The Headmaster’s hand is on Snape’s shoulder, holding tight, steadying him, directing him. But when he tries to catch a glimpse of that guiding hand, he sees the curse-blackened flesh, and a moment later, it crumbles into dust, leaving him with only the memory of touch and nothing more than that.


	2. 2

The prison routine, the dreary thing that it is, turns out to be entirely predictable. Food and water brought in the morning. Guards patrol the hallways every few hours at random. Every so often, when nobody else is looking, two of them enter Snape’s cell and amuse themselves by hauling him off the bed and onto the floor and delivering a few sharp kicks to his ribs, just hard enough to bruise without breaking. Nothing is said during those times, no questions are asked, no explanations provided. 

Once a week he’s taken to shower. He’s given a razor, but is advised that it’s got a safety charm on it, “So don’t even think of trying anything.” He doesn’t try anything, other than shave off a week’s worth of stubble. 

The shower is supervised, which means he washes up in plain view of the guards, who make comments about what they see and entertain themselves by instructing him on what to wash next and how. The degradation shouldn’t make any difference now, but somehow it still does. Sometimes, he thinks he might go insane, other times, he wonders if he’s already there and hasn’t noticed. 

The wounds are healing well, and the broken fingers seem to have mended; he has full use of his wand hand, which is a relief. 

He passes the days by talking to himself. Potion recipes, spells, hexes and curses, and countercurses… He fears he’s beginning to forget things, which, of course, is ridiculous, because it hasn’t been long enough to forget anything – a mere five weeks… And yet, sometimes he dreams of grading Potter’s homework, and finds himself staring blankly at the essay, not understanding what it says, not remembering what it should say. In those dreams, Potter stares at him, lips quirking into a triumphant smirk, and when Snape wakes up, he finds himself disturbed beyond all measure. 

It goes on and on, and days and weeks blur together, and he loses track of time, or maybe it is the time that’s lost track of him, misplaced him somehow and that’s how he ended up in a place where there’s no more seconds, minutes, hours, or days. 

There’s only the eternal now, and the dreams. 

He has dreams of Potter and Albus, and the latter outnumber the former by far, and he considers himself fortunate in that, at least. 

Then, one night, he dreams of someone else. 

He senses the Dark Lord’s hand on his head, stroking his hair. He kneels, and listens to the Dark Lord’s voice, soft, almost compassionate.

“I’ve waited so long for you to come to this point, Severus.” 

“My Lord?” 

“You’ve pledged yourself to me once, body and mind, soul and magic, all that is yours to be mine.” The gnarled fingers run across the Dark Mark on Snape’s forearm. 

“Yours,” Snape agrees automatically. 

“You’ve turned away from me,” the Dark Lord continues, “or did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t notice who really you were serving?” 

“I never…” Snape starts to deny, but his protests are cut off dismissively.

“It doesn’t matter now. Your so-called friends abandoned you. You’ve done all that was asked of you, and look where it got you. Do you understand now?” 

Snape finds his mind swimming: there must be some measure of truth in those seductive words; he can do nothing but listen. 

“Pledges like yours, once freely given, cannot be taken away, no matter how far you stray,” the Dark Lord continues. “Your body and mind, soul and magic – they are still mine, are they not? Now more so than ever. Now that you’ve seen that there’s nothing for you anywhere else…” 

Snape doesn’t reply, not out loud, but his mind screams agreement with all that he hears.

He wakes up drenched in cold sweat and shaking, and forces himself to breathe deeply and slowly, until the delusion is willed away. He has no idea what could have possibly caused such a seductive nightmare, and then, suddenly, he realizes that his Mark is burning. 

He almost sobs in relief – it is time. He’s about to go free. 

It’s almost too good to be true. 

***

Voldemort’s strike-force rushes through Azkaban like a storm. The dark hallways are lit up by the flashes of the curses, Azkaban’s guard is forced to retreat, and the liberators reign. Locks screech, doors clang, people shout and weep as they’re marched out to the pier, one by one. 

Snape waits by the door, shouts and calls, identifies himself, bangs against the metal bars – all in vain. 

Nobody pays him any heed, nobody comes for him. 

At the end of the day, he’s screamed his throat raw and scraped his hands against the metal, and – and nothing. 

He continues to call out and scream long after the commotion is over, still hoping that there’s been some sort of error, that someone will realize they’ve forgotten him… 

And then, when his voice is gone, and the small patch of the sky in the narrow window turns pitch-black again, he sits down on the narrow bed and leans against the wall. He rolls up the sleeve and touches his Mark. It no longer burns. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it all. 

Eventually, he lies down, but sleep is long in coming. 

The following morning, no food or water arrive, and no guards patrol the hallway; as far as he can tell his cell is the only one occupied on this level. 

He listens intently, but all day long the only sound he hears is the roar of the ocean and the beating of the waves against the stone. He wonders if he’s the only one left in the entire prison and what will happen now. 

Among other things, he wonders how long the water will last. 

He manages to make the water stretch four days. The morning of the fifth, still nobody comes, and he finds himself licking the barely damp bottom of the water-basin. 

He retreats to bed and lies down to conserve his strength. He doesn’t move at all, but his thoughts race at lightning speed, replaying all the possible “whys” and “how comes”. Perhaps, the Dark Lord simply decided he can’t trust Snape, or, perhaps, he found out about the Unbreakable Vow given to Narcissa and became angry about Snape meddling in the affairs that were not his concern. Either way, it is quite obvious that Albus had made a miscalculation about Snape’s appointment as headmaster… 

Images of Hogwarts, to be run by – Merlin only knows who: the Carrows? Bellatrix? Dolohov – flash before his eyes. Snape bites down on his lower lip, suppressing a groan. He doesn’t want to think of what the school will come to. 

_Nothing to be done._

Except the one task he can still do: give Potter Dumbledore’s final message. 

Get out of the death pit only in order to send someone else to die. Perhaps, there’s some sense in that; if one’s own life becomes fully devalued, it must be easier to throw away someone else’s. 

Snape lifts himself up on his elbow and walks around the cell, his palms feeling around the walls. There’s the smallest, barely-there trickle of water running in the groove between the stones. Snape presses his face to the wall and laps at it. 

When the guards show up another day later, he lets out a long embarrassing groan of relief. 

“You still alive?” The tall one, the one who’d led him from the boat, asks. 

“Water,” Snape croaks. 

The empty basin is taken away and refilled. Snape slides off the bed and crawls to it and drinks his fill, not caring that he must look like an animal, doing so. 

The guard watches him thoughtfully, then says:

“It wasn’t… intentional, you know. Leaving you without water. Everything was a mess, a few structural supports collapsed, and it took us a while to make it to this section. We got to you as soon as we could.” 

“I see,” Snape whispers. For some reason he’s almost touched by the fact that this guard has chosen to explain anything at all. “What’s your name?” 

“Marcus.” 

“Marcus,” Severus repeats. “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“If it’s about food, then – it’s on the way. Another hour or so…” 

“No,” Snape denies quickly, “not that. I need to speak to the current Head of the Order, whoever that might be.” 

It’s a risky thing to even ask, but Snape is fresh out of options, and either way, he’s useless here. The risk seems justifiable. 

“The Order of the Phoenix,” Marcus says. He’s barely visible in the shadows, but Snape can swear that he sees understanding flash on that face. 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve got some information for them?” 

“Something like that.” 

Marcus remains silent for a while, then slowly nods.

“I’ll see what I can do about that. Good night, Snape.” 

“… Night.” 

Snape crawls back to bed and falls asleep. He doesn’t wake even when the food is brought in. 

***

The following morning he’s woken by the screeching of metal against stone. 

“Bathtime,” he’s informed. 

Is it that time already? 

He doesn’t recognize the guards, not that it matters. He struggles to lift himself off the bed, then follows them obediently. 

The shower room is empty, save for him and the five guards. It seems odd that there are five of them – usually it’s only the two, not that it matters. The only thing that matters is obeying, getting through the proceedings, keeping a low profile, waiting for Marcus to get the message out, and Merlin only knows how long that’ll take… Another month? Half a year? 

“Strip.” 

He removes his prison-robe and folds it, wishing for a cleansing charm on it. The rusty shower head above emits a spittle of lukewarm water and he walks to stand under it. He shaves slowly; a shaking hand results in a few nicks to the chin, but he doesn’t care. 

“Hey. Prisoner sixteen thousand three hundred eighty-four. Turn around, will you?” 

His stomach drops. Snape turns, keeping his eyes on the floor. 

“Well, looks like you’re clean enough, for all intents and purposes,” the guard muses. 

Snape fights back a reply and resists the ridiculous urge to cover himself. 

“Come out, come out. Here, have a seat.” He’s pointed to a wooden bench in the middle of the shower room, and he sits down obediently, still not looking up. He still sees the burly body towering over him and the enormous palm, clenched into a giant fist. 

“You just couldn’t wait to whore yourself out again, could you?” The guard asks in a very quiet voice. “The Dark Lord saw fit to keep you here, and you didn’t like that, I take it. Wanted to see if you still had anything of value left to sell out? Give up some names, perhaps?” 

So much for taking risks…

Snape shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but the giant fists strike out. He flinches back, then tongues his broken lip, tasting blood. 

The man continues to talk. 

“Why don’t we see then, if you’ve got anything left to whore out? You know - show us. Just lie face down and spread your legs and…” 

Terror mingled with rage propel him forward. All common sense forgotten, Snape leaps off the bench, lunges at the man in front of him, striking out wildly – 

and he’s taken down mere moments later. Arms twisted behind his back, hair gathered in someone’s fist, he finds himself face down on that blasted bench. Someone sits on his legs, someone’s knee presses down on his back. Wrists are brought forward, tied down, and the knee is lifted off. 

A meaty palm runs down his back, fingers probing and poking. 

“Five.” 

“Five doesn’t seem enough.”

“There’s always tomorrow.” 

Five – what? 

Snape tugs at the rope binding his wrists and writhes in another futile effort to free his legs. Laughter answers him. 

“One.” 

The word’s accompanied by a swishing through the air and a moment later, a sharp blow seems to slice his back open. Snape howls, arches up as far as his body will go and collapses back onto the bench. 

A small trickle of blood runs down his back.

“Two.” The count resumes, and the blows keep coming. 

At five, Snape lies limp on the bench, half-groaning, half-whimpering. He sees the bloodied whip tossed aside, and someone’s hand runs across his back, tormenting the torn flesh. 

“You see, Snape, Azkaban is a different place these days. Thanks to You Know Who, it’s mostly our kind here now, running the show. And we’ve got things to teach you, and trust me, you’ll be learning them. Like – obeying, and being quiet and good, and counting off the blows when punished, and lying down when told.” 

Large palms descend on his backside – groping, squeezing, spreading him open. 

“Hand me the soap, will you,” the guard says matter-of-factly. 

Snape presses his cheek to the wood of the bench and shuts his eyes.


	3. 3

Snape loses track of days and weeks, but not the seasons. The days get shorter, the cell walls have a thin layer of frost covering them, in the mornings he can see his own breath hanging in the chill air. He gets another blanket. 

There is no news from the outside world. He wonders. 

He wonders about Hogwarts, about the Order, about Potter. 

Seeing that he’s got nothing to lose, he tries to ask about what is happening out there. Predictably, no answers come. 

There seems to be a general sense of uncertainty in the air, as far as Snape can tell from the fragments of conversations he overhears now and then. 

It is possible that nobody really knows what’s going on with the war; Azkaban truly is its own country, self-contained, separate from the rest of the world, with laws of its own. 

Snape learns those laws. It actually does hurt marginally less when he complies with his own degradation, and the beatings don’t last as long when he arches his back to the lash voluntarily. There is some sort of cycle to the torment that Snape can’t quite work out yet – long stretches of time, weeks upon weeks, when he’s left alone, nobody touching him or even talking to him; and then – there are seemingly endless days, when he’s remembered again. 

At times, he wonders what it is that’s keeping him alive. Perhaps it is the need to understand where he and Albus have erred, and how they could have miscalculated the entire thing so badly. 

Why is it that the Dark Lord hasn’t taken him back? Guessing Voldemort’s mind at a distance and with insufficient information is a fruitless endeavor, but Snape continues to try. 

Perhaps, if he works it out, if he solves this one final puzzle, he can let himself go. 

The dreams of Albus and Potter cease at some point, or maybe they don’t, maybe he still dreams of them, but no longer recognizes their faces when he does. Forgetting them doesn’t bother him as much as it likely should, but it is when he starts dreaming of Eileen, he suspects he’s passed a point of no return. 

Those dreams of her are soothing, comforting, in a childish kind of way. There’s nothing much to them: a lullaby, sung off-key, the faint scent of burned toast and honey, a bedtime story, hastily told… He shuts his eyes, breathes in, and listens. 

This one is familiar: the tale of the gifts of Death, and the man who had them. At the end of the story, the man sheds the Cloak of Invisibility and goes off to meet Death as an old friend. 

It seems like a good end. As he begins to drift, a series of disjointed images flash before his eyes. Potter—seems Snape hasn’t forgotten him, after all—taking off his Invisibility Cloak and stepping forward, face determined, lips pressed into an angry line. Snape sees a small stone, cracked across the middle, on Dumbledore’s desk, dark markings on it… and, the wand in his damaged hand, the ever-familiar wand that looks more ancient than any other Snape has ever seen… 

The Elder Wand. 

Snape wakes up with a start. 

Legends, speculations, rumours once overheard are of little help; he knows too little of how the Elder Wand’s power works, he just suspects that normally its loyalty goes to whoever has killed its rightful owner. 

Except… what happens, when someone like him becomes the Master of the wand? Someone who’s Marked. 

If the Dark Lord truly has a claim on Snape’s magic, then – then, should Snape die, the full mastery of the Wand will go to Voldemort. 

It probably doesn’t matter who or what actually kills Snape. He could die of natural causes, or take his own life, or be killed by one of the guards - the magic of the Mark, the magic of ownership likely makes no such distinction. 

Snape wonders how long it will take the Dark Lord to realize that. 

He also wonders whether the Dark Lord will come for him, or order Snape’s death and not bother with a personal visit. 

Either way, meeting death as an old friend is a luxury he can’t afford, not just yet. 

Perhaps, he can hold out a bit longer, not die just yet. Give their side the advantage of Voldemort’s mastery of the Wand being incomplete. 

He tries to fall asleep, but can't: for the first time in memory he is genuinely afraid to die. 

***

Snape asks himself whether he should have started etching markings into the walls to number the days spent here. Perhaps, he should have, but now, about a year into the imprisonment, there seems to be no point in starting. 

Summer turns out to be a strange thing – in the beginning of it Snape falls ill. It seems odd to have endured the winter only to fall apart with the first wave of warm weather. As days go by, breathing becomes more and more difficult, and eventually he feels like he’s submerged under water. 

The sight of gruel on the plate makes him nauseated, he doesn’t even bother trying. He drinks and tries to sleep. 

When the guards notice that the food is untouched for several days, they come in to check on him. The blankets are pulled off and tossed onto the floor, and his robe is lifted up, exposing his sweat-drenched body. Someone’s palm rests against his bare chest. 

“Shall we take him to the infirmary?”

“No point. He’ll be gone in a few days.” 

They leave without bothering to cover him up again. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies on his back, staring into the ceiling. He only knows that eventually he gets up, and crawls to the plate with the food, and forces himself to eat. 

Whatever it is that ails him – he manages to fight it off. 

On the first day that he’s feeling better, he sits on his bed, wrapped in the filthy blankets, and stares up at the metal bars of his window, marvelling at how blindingly blue the sky behind them is, and how sharp are the stormy petrels’ wings that slice through the air. It all feels so strange, almost unfamiliar, almost unreal: the roar of the ocean outside, the footsteps in the dusk of the hallways, and the golden sun-spots on the grey floor seem like fragments of some dream that he hasn’t finished watching. 

Snape sleeps. 

***

Time seems to find a way to measure itself. It etches itself into his back with every lash of the whip, it sinks into his bones, drawing to them the skin that now is thin as parchment. 

The second winter seems colder and darker than the first, or maybe it’s just him, all in his head, maybe it’s just that he’s forgotten what the first winter was like. 

He knows he’s forgetting things, but he doesn’t know what those things are. He supposes it is no great loss. He remembers that he needs to keep moving, eating and drinking, obeying orders, though he no longer knows why. 

He hopes that his third summer here will be more merciful than the second. 

At some point he realizes that he no longer dreams of anything at all. 

***

“On your feet. Come with us.” 

Snape gets off the bed and follows the guards, and his eyes are trained on the ground under his feet. He’s developed a strange fascination for detail, it seems: the way the stonework of the walls fits together, the way the shadows are cast, the way the heavy boots of the guards thump against the floor. The former life seems too vague, too fuzzy, all years of it blurred together into a single “time-before-all-this”, a memory he no longer knows what to make of. But the mind, the useless thing that it is, demands details and definition, and it soaks them in from whatever comes his way. 

The shower room smells of mildew and is brightly lit. He blinks, giving his eyes time to adjust to that light. 

“Remove your clothes.” 

Snape undresses obediently, folds his robe and places it on the floor by the bench. 

“Face down.” 

He stretches himself out to lie on his belly, places his hands under his chin. It only vaguely bothers him that he no longer remembers why exactly he’s obeying; he only knows that, for some reason, the thought of death frightens him. 

His eyes are half-shut, but he sees the movement all about him. He sees the already familiar thin whip in someone’s hand, and a moist cloth, wiping it. He doesn’t want to watch the preparations, not really, but he finds himself staring nonetheless – it’s the details that draw him: the black handle of the whip, the glistening film, covering the strap…. 

He finds his breath shortening, and his heart seems to be beating directly against the wood of the bench. 

The cloth is tossed aside, the man with the whip approaches him. 

There’s another scent in the air now, a scent that Snape can’t quite place at first, and when he does, he lets out a desperate groan.

“Thought we’d give you a bit more than the usual this time around,” the voice above him says. Snape feels the handle of the whip running along his spine. “Something to remember us by, over and over again. Count.” 

The lash falls, singes a fiery trail into his back, and Snape’s entire body twists. He slides off the bench and onto the floor, howling, sobbing into his hand; it hurts more than just broken skin should, and the burning doesn’t even begin to subside. 

“Consider it a parting gift,” the tormentor says. The handle of the whip touches Snape’s chin. “Back on the bench. Count.” 

“One,” Snape manages to whisper out, just as he’s lifted off the floor and pushed to lie on the bench one more time. 

He doesn’t know how he manages to get through the ten, then five more. He doesn’t know how long he stands under the tepid water – it does nothing to soothe the back and backside that feel like they’ve been flayed open. 

The water, first bloodied, turns clear eventually. 

He doesn’t dare to get dressed, and he ends up carrying the folded robe in his hands when he’s marched back to the cell.


	4. 4

They seem to forget him after that day. There are fragments of conversations that he overhears once more. Rumours of policy change, reassignments, new rules and new laws. He’s quite confident that none of it will affect him, and he allows himself to forget everything that he hears. 

He doesn’t know what to think when, one day, they come for him. For the longest time he stares at the bag that is deposited on the floor. He recognizes it: it contains his clothing from the day of his arrest. 

“You should change.”

He’s surprised to be left alone in his cell while he dresses. And he still doesn’t know what to make of it all. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s… strange, that’s all. 

It takes him a while to remember all that – the normal human clothing. The socks and the laces on the boots. The collar of the undershirt – all mended and even cleaned. The buttons of the black robe. He stands up, feeling like an impostor, a fake human that doesn’t belong in these clothes. 

He waits patiently for the cell door to open again. 

“Come with us. You have a visitor.” 

For one brief insane moment, Snape thinks of Albus – as if somehow he’s managed to forget that Albus is dead. Then he remembers and lets out a brief, hoarse laugh.

He’s given an odd look, but nobody makes a comment, and they walk the dark hallway in silence. 

The waiting room they let him into is brightly lit, clean. He’s pointed to a chair, which he takes, while contemplating that one strange word – “visitor”. 

The guards – Snape finally notices they’re wearing the Auror uniforms – leave the room, and Snape is alone again. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. A minute later the door to the room opens and a sound of footsteps is heard. 

Snape lifts his eyes and stares at his visitor speechlessly. And realizes one thing: he still remembers Potter’s face, after all. 

Potter, standing in the doorway, stares back at him for a moment or two, then strides towards him, pulls up an empty chair and straddles it to sit across from Snape. Potter’s chin rests on the back of the chair. 

“Snape,” Potter says, his voice guarded. 

Silently, Snape looks at the man who sent him to Azkaban two years ago, and doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s got nothing. 

Certainly, there’s no anger, no resentment, not even the very childish desire to ask something along the lines of “why” and “what have you done to me” and “will you believe me” – nothing like that.

There’s only waiting and listening. 

Snape waits and listens. 

“You look like crap,” Potter says bluntly. “How do you feel?” 

He recognizes Potter’s words to be a question, but he doesn’t know how to answer that. He simply stares at Potter’s face, surprised by how much older Potter looks now. It appears odd that someone so young – how old is Potter, anyway, nineteen? – should look so tired. 

Potter’s tone softens a bit. 

“Are you all right?” 

Snape misses the meaning of that question altogether, he’s too absorbed in studying Potter, fascinated by the level of detail his mind soaks in. Potter’s clothes are Muggle – blue jeans, winter boots, a long black raincoat – unbuttoned to reveal the dark-green sweater with a dragon pattern… that sweater seems familiar, somehow…. 

“Snape, do you… actually understand me?” Potter probes, insistent. 

Snape gives a small nod at that, still staring at Potter’s sweater. He wonders suddenly whether the woman who’s knitted it – must have been Molly Weasley – is still alive. Or – for that matter – who else is still alive, of those Snape used to know. 

“How long has it been?” Snape asks. 

“Two years,” Potter seems startled by the question, but regroups quickly. “Well, a bit longer than that.” 

“The war?”

“Ended two weeks ago. Voldemort is dead,” Potter says. When Snape doesn’t react, he adds: “If you don’t believe me, take a look at your Mark. It’s… well, it's all gone now. Just the scarring left, nothing else.” 

Snape obeys automatically, rolling up the sleeve, baring his left forearm. Potter is right, of course, the Mark has faded to almost nothing. 

“See?” Potter says. 

Snape nods absently. He knows he should be happy, or at least relieved, but all he feels is an incredible weariness, and that makes it almost impossible to process that simple fact: “It’s all over.” 

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him to find out that Albus was wrong about Potter needing to die for the war to be won. Yet another miscalculation on his part, and, perhaps, it is a lucky thing that Snape was never there to give that one final message to Potter…

“Why are you here?” Snape asks. 

Potter opens his mouth to answer, but they’re interrupted when the door to the waiting room opens again. Snape lifts his eyes. 

A tall man, limping, approaches them and stops a few feet away. It takes Snape a long minute to recognize him – the once familiar face is horribly disfigured by scars, and the mane of once tawny hair is now all gray. 

“Mister Potter, I must protest this…” Scrimgeour declares, but doesn’t elaborate what exactly it is that he’s protesting. 

Potter doesn’t turn around. 

“Minister. You caught up with me. I thought you would.” 

“You’ve got no jurisdiction in this matter!” 

“I’m the Head of the Order,” Potter says matter-of-factly. Snape is surprised to realize that there’s no triumph in Potter’s tone – just weariness. “Snape was a part of the Order. We try and punish our own. That’s the way it is.” Potter falls silent for a while, then adds: “If memory serves me right, you didn’t seem to mind when I dealt with Tonks myself.” 

“That was different.”

“It wasn’t. Look, this really isn’t negotiable. I’m not leaving him here - he’s to be transferred to a proper detention facility.” 

“The new detention facility isn’t going to be ready for three more weeks,” Scrimgeour continues to argue.

“Then he’s going to St. Mungo’s. Which is where he should be – I mean, just bloody look at him. He can barely piece two words together.” 

“St. Mungo’s overcrowded – I don’t need to tell you that, you’ve brought most injured there yourself,” Scrimgeour’s voice softens slightly. “They won’t accept someone who’s… reasonably well.” 

Potter shrugs. “I’ll work something out.”

“Such as?” Scrimgeour nearly growls, like a dog with a bone that he’s not about to let go. 

“I’ll bloody take him to my own house and guard him myself until the new detention facility is ready! Is that all right with you?!” Potter seems to finally have lost his patience. 

Scrimgeour sighs. 

“We need to talk about this some more. Now that the war is over, we can’t have two systems of justice running simultaneously.”

“I realize that,” Potter concedes. “And yes, we need to talk. But I’m still doing this. Snape is the last one. And he’s ours to deal with.” 

Scrimgeour gives Snape a quick, disdainful once-over and his mangled lips quirk in disgust. 

“I doubt Snape considers himself one of yours,” he says finally. “But tell you what. If he accepts your authority in the matter, you can have him.”

A long silence falls then. Snape waits and waits, and nothing is said, and it finally dawns on him that they’re waiting for him. Potter is looking at him quizzically, thoughtfully. 

Snape considers it. The military justice is never more merciful than that of the civilian world, but it does have one decided advantage: it is always swift. And Potter… simply put, Potter seems too tired to drag out any sort of punishment for years and years. The thought of a death sentence – the most likely outcome at this point – doesn’t inspire fear, but for some reason, brings with it the faintest twinge of nearly childish resentment, but that resentment vanishes as quickly as it appears, giving way to a sense of rightness. 

“Snape?” Potter asks quietly. “What do you say?” 

Snape nods. It seems fitting, somehow, that this whole _thing_ , having began with Potter, will end with him. 

“I accept your authority. I will go with you.” It almost aches to say that, but Snape manages to force the words out.

Scrimgeour huffs and shakes his head, but gives the door a quick rap. Snape stares at Scrimgeour’s hand, closed in a fist, and notices it misses the index and the middle fingers. 

An Auror enters the waiting room, Scrimgeour says something to him – the voice is barely audible, nearly a hiss, but Snape hears “Order’s prerogative” and “going with Potter”. The Auror seems unsurprised. He walks up to Potter and hands him a small packet. Potter unwraps it. 

Snape finds his breath shortening. 

This – does hurt. Seeing his own wand in Potter’s hands. 

For a quick moment Snape fully expects Potter to snap it in half, but Potter simply pockets it and motions for Snape to follow him. 

Snape stands up. 

At the door, Potter lingers briefly and casts what seems to be an apologetic glance at the Minister. Scrimgeour mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and then adds, mildly: 

“Well, Harry, I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

“Me too,” Potter concedes. “Drinks Saturday night?” 

“If I can get away.” 

“See you at my place then. If you can.” 

“Yes.” 

Potter nods and leads the way.

Snape follows him, barely able to credit that he’s about to get out. 

Getting out turns out to be a more lengthy process than getting in. First, there’s another room, where Potter signs multiple papers. Then – another, where an Auror touches the tip of his wand to Potter’s and proceeds to cast numerous spells on Snape, from time to time testing the outcome. Eventually, he declares:

“The tracking spell is keyed to the Auror office and to you personally. It is linked directly to your house wards; if he takes as much as a step beyond them, you will be alerted. Also – if he does anything the charm recognizes as suspicious. How will you be transporting him? A body-binding spell, or restraints?” 

Snape fully expects to be placed in the body-binding spell and transported by Mobilicorpus, but Potter opts for restraints – metal cuffs linking Snape’s wrists behind his back.

Eventually he and Potter are standing together on the pier, shoulders touching, waiting for the boat to arrive. 

The night sky is overcast, no moon or stars visible, and the only thing illuminating the dock is the faint glow emanating from Potter’s wand. The waves are beating against the rock and wood, and Snape stares into the ocean, squinting, barely able to see the foamy crests.

“What month is it?” Snape asks. 

“September.” 

Potter’s voice is reserved and cool. Snape wonders if Potter already regrets saddling himself with him, and doesn’t ask anything else. 

The boat arrives shortly; Snape feels the dock move slightly at the contact the bow makes with it. He isn’t certain how he’s going to make it down there, and braces himself, half-expecting to be either levitated in or tossed inside, but Potter motions for him to step aside. A series of spells is cast, immobilizing the boat and conjuring a set of steps along with railing. Snape makes it down to the boat on his own, and sits down on the small bench. Potter joins him shortly, vanishes the steps with a flick of his wand and releases the boat. 

His arms, held behind his back by the restraints, are beginning to feel numb, and his back is aching, and yet, against all odds, Snape finds a small measure of satisfaction in the fact that he walked out of Azkaban on his own two feet, wasn’t carried out like a pile of debris. He’s almost ready to thank Potter for choosing the restraints over Mobilicorpus, but Potter doesn’t seem to be in the mood to be thanked. 

The boat sways, riding the waves, and Snape can’t help it – awkwardly bumping against Potter, he turns around to give Azkaban one parting look. He sees the enormous tower, barely visible against the night sky, drowning in the pitch-black darkness. 

Potter tenses next to him, but does nothing to stop him from looking. 

Eventually, Azkaban vanishes from sight. Snape turns around, shifts uncomfortably, eventually finds the position that makes his back and shoulders ache marginally less. 

Potter is silent next to him, asking nothing, volunteering no information. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape watches Potter; he’s barely visible in the faint glow of the Lumos, but Snape thinks that he notices an expression of almost childish hurt on the weary face. But that hurt is come and gone, and Potter is calm again. 

Snape finds himself feeling calm, too. He doesn’t wonder how soon the trial by the Order will be, and how exactly he’ll be “dealt with”. All in all, it doesn’t matter. Strangely enough, he’s thinking it’ll be good to get a glimpse of Muggle London again, see the world that he’s forgotten by now, and that has likely forgotten him too…. Except for Potter, Snape corrects himself. 

There’s no resentment at the recognition that Potter holds his life in his hands now, and at how _final_ that feels. Potter hasn’t forgotten, came to take back his own – to try and punish; it’s personal with Potter, maybe that comes with being the Head of the Order… and then again, it always has been that way between them.

There’s a small measure of comfort that comes with that thought, and then, Snape doesn’t think of anything else. 

***

Snape wakes up feeling sore, warm and disoriented all at once. For a quick second, he almost fears that he’s dreamt the whole thing: Potter coming for him, Potter taking him out of Azkaban… He opens his eyes, to realize that he’s still on the boat, though the boat isn’t moving anymore, and he himself has managed to slide to the floor and fall asleep, his head pressed against Potter’s knee for support. 

What comes as a shock is that Potter hasn’t pushed him off, has thrown his own coat over Snape’s shoulders. And even cast a warming spell of some sort. 

Snape doesn’t know what to make of it, but he isn’t given time to process this strange turn of events: a Lumos Maxima pierces the darkness, and Potter’s hand rests on his shoulder.

“We’ve arrived. Come on. Let’s go.” 

Snape sits up straight, then slowly brings one knee forward and rises to his feet. Potter’s coat slides off his shoulders and onto the floor. Potter picks it up without saying a word. 

They are off the boat minutes later. Their feet are sinking in the damp sand, the waves roll in, and they find themselves ankle-deep in water. Potter mutters a quiet obscenity under his breath. Snape lifts his head and stares around. He sees almost nothing – just the endless shore of the North Sea, the faint flickering of the lights somewhere in the distance, and the enormous expanse of the sky overhead. It feels like being at the end of the inhabited world, the very edge of it, and a single step in either direction will end in a fall. 

When another wave rolls in, Snape nearly stumbles, but Potter’s hand catches him, resting across his chest. 

“Easy,” Potter says calmly. And then, the vortex of Apparition sucks them in.


	5. 5

A moment later – just like that - they are at the doorstep of a house, Potter’s, presumably. Snape looks around, sees a tall fence enclosing the yard and a single rowan tree, bright leaves damp with rain, glistening in the glow of porch light. 

Potter flicks his wand to vanish Snape’s restraints. 

Snape allows his arms to drop, and waits for Potter to open the door and guide them in.

A moment later, something catches Potter’s eye and he unceremoniously pushes Snape aside, inserts himself to stand between him and the door. The tip of Potter’s wand touches to the lock. 

_“Disclosio.”_

For another long moment Potter is quiet, absorbing the information coming from his house wards. Eventually, he relaxes and lowers the wand, and they go inside. 

The house is brightly lit. Snape follows Potter inside and continues to stare, noting the messy living room, a couch in the middle of it, stacks of books by the wall, a trunk with clothes in one of the corners. It almost looks like Potter isn’t quite settled in. 

Snape is still somewhat shocked by all this – not the disarray, but the stunning normalcy of his surroundings and the fact that Potter did bring him into his own house. Back in Azkaban, Snape had thought it to be a figure of speech. 

“Hermione, I’m home and I’m not alone,” Potter announces. “How long have you been here?”

“Just arrived. You weren’t answering the firecalls, and my Patronus returned …”

“Sorry. I should have warned you I was going to be out.” 

Granger’s bushy head pokes out of the kitchen doorway. Her eyes widen as she sees Snape, and she almost flinches, but doesn’t say anything, just motions for Harry to come in. 

Harry gives Snape a quick nod. 

“Just sit down and wait.” 

Snape sits down on the couch and leans back. From this vantage point he can see both Granger and Potter, but a silencing charm is promptly placed between them and him. Granger talks quickly, animatedly. Potter listens, and his brow furrows. He asks something. Granger nods. 

Potter bows his head low. Granger reaches for him and touches his shoulder, and Potter almost flinches at the contact. The next moment, the silencing charm goes down and both Granger and Potter head toward the door. Snape follows them with his eyes and marvels at two things: how tall they both have grown over the last two years, and… how beautiful Granger looks now, almost unnervingly so. Her face, as far as he can see, is nearly flawless, without any blemishes or imperfections, without any sign of weariness… in fact, the only thing about her that looks tired are the eyes. 

Potter stops in the doorway and tells Granger: 

“Give me a minute. I’ll be right out.” 

She gives Snape another appraising look, but nods and leaves, closing the door on her way out. 

Potter turns around. 

“Snape. We’ll have to talk later – I need to leave. First of all, do you have any injuries that need to be treated right away?”

Snape shakes his head at that. 

“In that case, settle yourself in. There are two bedrooms on the second floor of the house, take the one that has the door open. If you want fresh sheets, change them yourself – you’ll find the bedding and fresh towels in the linen cupboard. If you want different clothes to wear, you can take some of mine. New toothbrush and razors are under the sink. Whatever food is in the fridge or in the kitchen cupboards - you’re welcome to.” 

Snape nods to acknowledge Potter’s words that barely register with him. 

Potter gives him another long look and adds:

“Snape. You understand why I’m doing this, don’t you?” 

Snape stares at him in confusion. He doesn’t, not really – it’s difficult to fathom why someone who considers him guilty, who’s about to pass the final judgment on him, would bring him _home_. 

“The Reconstituted Order is something more than just a team,” Potter exclaims in his usual calm tone. “We’ve become a family of sorts. We watch out for each other, but we also decide what happens to those of us who do wrong. You used to be one of us at one point. This is the only reason I didn’t leave you in Azkaban. Because you said you wanted to be tried by your own.” 

“I see,” Snape whispers, his mind reeling from all that Potter has said. 

“I hope so,” the weariness is back in Potter’s voice. “Do me a favor – and don’t try to escape. It won’t be a problem to find you with the tracking charm on, but if the Aurors get to you first, I don’t know that I will come for you the second time around. You’ve chosen this, so don’t run from it.” 

Snape inclines his head in consent. 

“I will not run.” 

Potter doesn’t quite look like he believes him, but then Granger knocks on the door and Potter walks out of the house without looking back. 

For a while Snape continues to sit on the couch, staring blankly in front of himself. It still boggles his mind to be in someone’s home. To be able to catch a glimpse of normal life before the end. And, oddly enough, to feel like a part of something bigger than himself, even if that _something_ will pass judgment on him very shortly and most likely will dispose of him. 

There is a calm that comes with that, and Snape shuts his eyes for a while. Then he gets up and begins to survey Potter’s home. 

The kitchen is simple, the cupboards are filled with food, and Snape gets the distinct impression that everything was stocked here in one day – by someone who either detests cooking or has no time for it. There’s canned food, Pot Noodle snacks, packets of instant oatmeal and soups, anything that could be cooked in two minutes or less. The fridge has apples, grapes, carrots, cheese and milk and nothing else – two of the shelves are completely bare. The freezer is empty. 

On the counter there’s a jar of instant coffee and a box of tea. 

Snape cuts off a small slice of cheese and chops up an apple, but finds he doesn’t recognize the taste – it’s neither good nor bad, just unfamiliar. And more to the point, he doesn’t feel hungry, he’s too used to eating in the mornings only, and food at this time of night is… confusing. 

He leaves the kitchen and walks upstairs. 

He finds the linen cupboard without difficulty, picks up a fresh towel and walks to the bathroom. All of a sudden, everything begins to feel less and less real, more and more like a dream: the hot water that bursts out of the shower head, the cellophane-packaged toothbrush he finds under the sink, the mint-scented soap – and – and not being watched in all this; just allowed to be alone. 

He crouches in the bathtub, allowing the hot water to fall on him. It burns more than soothes, heat erupting along the lines left in his back by the whip, but he almost doesn’t care – it’s too good to be warm. He begins to nod off, but catches himself just in time. When he gets out of the tub, the floor is damp, and the mirror is foggy. He wraps the towel around himself, picks up his clothes and walks to the bedroom that Potter told him to take. 

He is startled to recognize that it’s Potter’s own bedroom he’s been moved to. He briefly wonders about what’s in the other bedroom, but has neither the strength nor real curiosity to investigate. 

Maybe the other bedroom is Granger’s. This makes sense, this fits Snape’s idea of ‘how things should be’ – that the Head of the Order would have someone like her by his side. 

Snape looks through Potter’s wardrobe. It is sparse, seems like most of Potter’s clothing hasn’t been unpacked yet. Eventually he finds something he can wear to bed – a tee shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. The tee shirt is entirely too loose on him, and he needs to tighten the drawstring on the shorts as far as it will go, but none of that bothers him. He turns out the lights and stumbles to the bed – and falls on it.

Potter’s blanket is warm. 

Snape buries his face in the pillow and belatedly realizes he forgot to change the sheets, not that it matters any. He inhales deeply. 

The bed smells of another human being. It smells of Potter. 

Snape is vaguely surprised that, after all this time, he can still tell different smells apart. 

He almost smiles at that, breathes in and out evenly and soon begins to drift. Somehow, he finds the smell of another human soothing – like a dog who is soothed by the owner’s scent. And then, just like that, before he even has a chance to be disturbed by that thought, he sinks into oblivion.


	6. 6

Snape wakes up well into afternoon and walks downstairs, dressed in Potter’s shirt and jeans. He notices a blanket and a pillow on the couch and realizes that Potter had come and gone out again, without waking him or talking to him. It’s odd – to be left home alone like this. As far as incarcerations go, this barely fits the bill; whatever Potter’s intentions were, Snape feels he’s getting a respite of sorts. 

He walks to the kitchen and looks through the cupboards again. Now that he’s got a chance to think of it, Snape is surprised by how Muggle everything here is - the electric kettle, the stove, the refrigerator, the coffee maker… in other words, everything, save for the wards. He fills the kettle with water and plugs it in, then walks around Potter’s home again. 

This time around, he takes a peek into what he presumes to be Granger’s bedroom. The bedroom isn’t a bedroom at all – it’s converted into a storage space for medical supplies, packets of herbs, vials of potions… Snape doesn’t know what to make of it, and he closes the door. 

He almost misses the soft click of the kettle, having come to boil and turned itself off. Snape walks downstairs again and makes tea. Food-wise, he settles on two packets of instant oatmeal. He shakes his head at the thought that here he is—two years after being fed nothing but porridge—choosing more of the same as his first meal after Azkaban, but… he isn’t certain how to handle anything else. 

He eats quickly, cleans up, and goes back to the living room. He looks through Potter’s books, half-expecting them to be warded, but finding that nothing is charmed to keep him away. Snape shrugs, picks up a random book and retreats upstairs. When he makes it to the bedroom that now is his, he looks at the book and raises an eyebrow – he ended up with a tome of poetry by Robert Burns. He pages through the book, and sees the inscription – “To Harry, Happy New Year, Rufus.” Snape remembers Scrimgeour’s mangled face and disfigured hand and winces. 

There’s no bedside table, so he sets the book on the floor, and lies down again, oddly exerted after doing nothing at all. 

Potter and Granger return in the afternoon, but they don’t linger. Judging by the sound of it, Potter picks up some supplies in the storage room. 

Then, Snape hears Granger’s voice. 

“Harry. Have you spoken to Snape yet?” 

“When?” Harry replies rather tersely. “Should I have woken him at four in the morning?” 

“I see your point. Still…” 

“I’ll try tonight. If I come home at a decent hour,” Potter concedes. “Not that I’ve got anything new to tell him – the detention facility won’t be ready for another two weeks, and the trial … fuck, I don’t even know when we’ll have the time to call the next meeting of the Order. Another week, I guess.” 

“You know, you surprised me. That you let him stay in your house,” Granger says with a sigh. 

Potter sighs as well. 

“I surprised myself, I think.” 

The door slams shut. 

Snape shuts his eyes, thinking, “three weeks”. The countdown begins. 

***

He and Potter miss each other again and again, over the course of the first week that Snape is in his home. Snape doesn’t really know when exactly Potter returns, or when he leaves. The hours Potter keeps are bizarre and Potter barely seems to be aware of someone living in his house, using up all the hot water several times a day and eating his food. 

One day, Snape wonders if he should wait up for Potter and finally have the conversation that will cross the t’s and dot the i’s. 

Then, for a brief second, a recreant, foolish thought crosses his mind: maybe it’s possible to be so quiet and unnoticeable, that Potter would simply forget all about him… and there’d be no trial, no further punishments, no – anything. Just mornings spent alone, days upon days of sleep, and never having to see anybody at all… nothing but Potter’s scent on the linens to keep him company.

Certainly, this seems like a good place to be forgotten, Severus muses, and then shakes off that thought. Can’t hide forever. Nor does he want to, not really. Maybe he just wants it to be over. 

He walks down to the empty living room and looks around again, once again, marvelling at how normal everything here is. Weeks – or, perhaps days — before he’ll be taken away again, and that thought alone brings with it the almost forgotten urge to try and grab these final moments of this normalcy, get the most out of them before the end. 

He doesn’t quite know how to do that, but he improvises. He goes through a box of books by the wall in the living room and pulls out a thin book that turns out to be Eliot. Then, he notices a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and decides that his quest is complete. Still barefoot, clad in nothing but Potter’s jeans and ill-fitting shirt, he makes it to the porch, sits down on the steps and lights the cigarette. 

This exercise brings with it two discoveries. 

First: smoking is every bit as good as it was when he was fourteen.

Second: the Aurors’ response time to the crossing of Potter’s wards is somewhere around the one-and-a-half minutes mark. 

An entire swarm of them, fifteen or so, Apparate directly to Potter’s enclosed yard, their wands drawn, staring down at Snape, who is sitting barefoot at the doorstep, a book under his arm. 

Potter is the last one to arrive, looking dishevelled and not exactly happy, as he makes his way through the small crowd. 

“He was trying to run,” someone says, and Snape is startled to recognize Moody’s voice.

“Yes, I can see that,” Potter says. “Barefoot, with a pack of cigarettes and 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' – good choice, Snape.” 

Snape doesn’t answer or lift his eyes, just stares at his own bare feet. 

“Maybe he was just testing to see what he could get away with,” Moody points out. 

“Well, now he knows,” Potter replies. “It’s okay. I’ll handle this.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

The Aurors depart. Moody is the last one to leave, but not before giving Snape a clearly suspicious look, lips twisted into a menacing grimace. Potter remains. 

Eventually, Snape looks up. 

Potter looks vexed and seems to be looking for just the right words. On his part, Snape doesn’t know what to say. 

Finally, Potter sighs and relaxes slightly. The corner of his mouth twists slightly to form an almost amused smirk. 

“Snape. You suck.” 

Snape gives him a blank stare. 

“Why did you do that?” Potter insists.

“I wanted fresh air.” 

“You could have opened a window!” Potter seems to be more frustrated than mollified by Snape’s explanation and raises his voice. “You pulled me out of the middle of – seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?” 

Snape looks away again. He doesn’t know what to do with this – someone’s anger directed at him – and finds that he has the ridiculous, yet overwhelming urge to lie face down on the ground and wait for a beating. He takes a drag of his cigarette and shuts his eyes, allowing the madness to pass. 

In the end he’s got nothing to offer to Potter but the stupid truth of it. 

“I only ever smoked as a teen. For obvious reasons I never did that at home. I also assumed that your wards extend to your porch – as my own home wards do… did.” 

“I see,” Potter mutters. “Okay. Go inside.” 

Snape stubs the cigarette out on the wooden step and complies. He waits in the living room, while Potter stays outside for a good hour. Snape doesn’t hear him Apparating away, and wonders what on earth could be going on. 

Eventually, Potter re-enters the house and addresses him. 

“Snape. I have to leave. I’ve extended the wards to enclose the yard, so you can smoke and walk around and stuff. Do me a favor and try not to alert half the Auror office again today.” 

It takes a while for the full meaning of Potter’s words to catch up with Snape. 

He doesn’t quite know what to make of them, or how to react, but he does know one thing. Such – kindness – to the condemned is a rare thing. He doesn’t want to belittle it. 

Potter doesn’t seem to expect anything in return, as he simply turns away and walks to the door. 

“Potter,” Snape says quietly. Potter stops in the doorway. “Thank you for that.” 

“Welcome,” Potter says, without turning around. 

Snape stares at Potter’s lean body and broad shoulders, the impossibly straight back and the head held high… 

For a quick second Snape is taken by this incongruity – him being at Potter’s mercy, justifying himself to Potter… but the resentment that should come with that just isn’t there. Nothing is there but the silent acknowledgment that Potter has grown into his own destiny, while Snape has managed to lose track of his own; Potter is an adult now, his superior… and Snape is his charge, much like other members of the Order. 

_His._ The word brings a subtle ache with it, and Snape gives voice to it by asking a rather reckless question.

“You mentioned Tonks at one point. What is her story?”

“I do believe that is none of your business,” Potter answers predictably, his voice sharp. His back tenses. 

“It must have been difficult,” Snape muses, and he means it – Potter seems to be not gloating or enjoying this … position. He simply bears it, much like Albus had. 

Potter turns around quickly, and his eyes narrow. 

“Snape. Don’t push it. I will not discuss other people’s business with you. We’ll talk about yours tonight. If I come back early enough.”

“All right,” Snape agrees. “Good day, Potter.” 

“And to you.” 

It is late afternoon when Snape walks of the house again and sits down on the steps. For a while he stares at the wooden, unpainted boards of the tall fence surrounding the house and wonders what lies beyond them. He’s tempted to walk to the fence and try to peer through the gaps, but decides not to, lest he sets off the wards again – he doesn’t want to lose this yard, and the chance to sit outside; it’s almost an obsession now, to try and grasp these final days-hours-minutes of normal human existence. 

He pages through "Prufrock," and it’s all just fragments to him; words seem to be pieced together in a whimsical way as if to barely graze the edges of his understanding. Some of it seems to be almost about him – just the associations and images that he finds himself gripped by, and some – he doesn’t understand at all. 

_In a minute there is time  
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse_

He thinks of Albus; the memory is faint, faded like an old photograph, fragmented like the lines of poetry that don’t fully make sense. Snape barely remembers their final conversations, or that night on the Tower – it is as if he’s still out in the ocean, a wall of ever-grey mist is separating him from the mainland of his life. 

“So all our decisions were reversed in a single minute, or so it would seem,” Snape whispers, his hand resting on the pages of the open book.

The yard is silent, only the leaves of the rowan tree rustle quietly when a rare gush of wind touches the tree-top. Snape forces himself to focus and read – beginning to end. 

_I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  
I do not think that they will sing to me._

He feels an odd kinship to Albus now, the way he never had before – in the sense that now he knows what it feels like – to accept the fact that the rest of the story one invested himself in would be written by someone else….

_I have seen them riding seaward on the waves_  
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back  
When the wind blows the water white and black.  
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown  
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. 

He shuts the book and allows it to rest on the wooden steps of the porch. He realizes that he likely needs to go back to the house, have dinner, retire to bed, but he finds himself unable to bring himself to part with such a simple thing as being outside. 

Then again, there’s no need. 

He lifts his head and watches the evening spread itself out against the sky.


	7. 7

For his execution, they take Snape to the Department of Mysteries, and he guesses his final destination almost immediately. In the end, it is Potter who is leading him, but not at wandpoint; they are simply walking shoulder to shoulder until they stop in front of the ancient doorway. 

For a while Snape stares at the Arch. 

So this is where it ends, he thinks, then turns to face Potter. 

Potter looks collected and calm. He lifts his head to meet Snape’s eyes.

“You know what to do,” Potter says.

“I do,” Snape agrees.

Something like regret flickers in Potter’s eyes, but fades almost instantly. 

“It’s not that bad,” Potter says softly. “It’s quick and it won’t hurt.” 

“I know.” 

“What are you waiting for, then?” 

Snape hesitates for a brief second and casts a quick glance; he can almost see the veil shimmer, faint shadows of times past running across it, and then vanishing without a trace. 

_I don’t want to die,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. It’s not that death frightens him – it’s just that… he tries to think of something, remember something – Hogwarts, Albus, lessons, refereeing Quidditch matches…even bloody Azkaban, but those memories seem to slip away from him. In fact, the only things he remembers clearly at this point are Potter’s doorstep and the rowan tree in the yard, and it hurts dreadfully to have that taken away from him. 

“I’d like to take your book with me,” Snape hears himself say. “Eliot.” He doesn’t even stop to think why he’s asking for it, or how exactly Potter is going to produce it, even if he were inclined to agree.

And yet, for some reason, he’s still disappointed when Potter shakes his head. 

“You don’t need that sort of thing,” Potter says, his voice mild. “All you need now is yourself.” 

Snape, quieted by Potter’s words, turns away from him and begins to walk. He doesn’t look back. 

Shortly, he enters the Arch, and finds himself suspended in a grey mist – unable to see anything, to feel anything at all. 

It takes him a long minute to realize that he’s falling somewhere, and the fall lasts for what seems like an eternity, until he comes to a full stop, his face pressing into the coarse fabric of Potter’s couch.

Snape sits up abruptly, cursing himself for falling asleep, while he fully intended to wait up for Potter. 

Speaking of Potter… 

Potter is standing by the couch, his face barely visible in the dusk of the room. He seems more tired than ever. 

“Snape. It’s late. Or early - however you want to call it. At any rate, I need to sleep.” 

The nightmare begins to fade, and Snape shakes his head, banishing the remnants of those images – the Arch, the stone floor of the Department of Mysteries, the calm and cool dream-Potter, who led him there… 

There’s still no fear, just the slight, but steady draining ache that he doesn’t know how to stop. The only thing he can think of is that, maybe speaking with Potter will somehow help close off that drain. 

“Potter,” Snape says without missing a beat, “I realize that you’re tired, but perhaps, we could talk?” 

“At three in the morning?” 

“There seems to be no other time,” Snape points out, still uncertain about how much he can push. 

“Fine,” Potter concedes, and sits down on the other end of the couch, keeping a respectable distance between himself and Snape. “All right,” he says again, flicking his wand to light a Lumos. “I’m not thinking very clearly now, so maybe you should just ask me whatever questions you’ve got.” 

Snape is taken aback by that. He expected the conversation to be one-sided, for the most part. 

“How did you become the Head of the Order?” Snape surprises himself by asking. 

Potter seems surprised as well, but answers nonetheless.

“It just sort of happened on its own. I had the information, I had a mission, and people – sort of just came to rally around me. I never asked or it. It didn’t become official until about a year ago.” 

“I see,” Snape whispers. “How big is the Order now?”

“About three hundred. Give or take. But er, didn’t you want to talk about your upcoming trial?” 

“Yes,” Snape concedes. “What can you tell me?” 

“Well, you heard me and Rufus talking back there… all in all, Azkaban’s days are numbered. It’s a terrible place, nobody should be there. We’re trying to create a new detention facility, that’s going to be… well, normal. I mean, it’ll still be prison, but not like that. If you’re convicted, you’ll go there for a while. There’s no death penalty, of course.” Seeing the shock on Snape’s face, Potter adds firmly, “We’re trying to do things right this time.” 

“I see,” Snape says. He hadn’t expected that – to live. “How long?” 

“If you’re convicted, no less than five years, not more than ten. Minus the two you already served in Azkaban. Also, seeing that you were taken without a trial – well. It’ll likely play in your favor, if you were to ask for leniency.” 

Snape suppresses a bitter smile. Leniency. The word galls him, although he supposes it shouldn’t under the circumstances.

“My wand?” he asks.

“Will be given back to you once you get out. There will be some limitations on what magic you can practice for the first year, and then... it’ll be as before.” Potter looks away, seeming resentful of the fact that a time will come, when Snape’s life will be ‘as before’. 

“Who will be trying me?” Snape asks.

“You have a choice,” Potter answers, his voice still calm. “Either to be tried by the Head of the Order, or by your peers, ten of them. Two are chosen by you, two by me. The rest are selected randomly. You don’t need to decide right now…” 

“I choose to be tried by you,” Snape says at once. 

Potter, startled, turns to face him. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says through gritted teeth. Snape stares at him – Potter’s face, illuminated by the faint Lumos of his wand, is hardened, lips pressed together. “Snape. I brought you here, because you were one of us once, and because Azkaban is no place for anybody. I wasn’t exactly horrible to you, because that’s not really my thing. But I didn’t forget Dumbledore, and I saw the entire thing with my own eyes. If you give this decision to me, you will receive the maximum sentence, I can guarantee that.” 

Snape stares back, and can almost taste the bitterness of the words he’s about to spit out.

“Surely, you don’t expect me to deny that I killed Dumbledore? Or parade myself before my _peers_ ,” he marks the latter word with a special note of loathing, “asking them for _leniency?_ It ought to be you. Finish this, Potter.” 

If Potter is surprised by his outburst, he gives no sign of it. 

“Okay. If that’s what you want. We’ll submit the joined petition to the Advisory Board of the Order in the morning. They still need to approve this. Go to sleep now, and let me do the same.” 

Snape rises to his feet and walks up the stairs, heading to the bedroom. When he reaches the top of the staircase, he stops and turns around to catch the final glimpse of Potter. 

Potter is still sitting on the couch in the same position, clasping his wand. He hasn’t moved – except there’s a slump in his shoulders now, as if even more weight has been added to them. 

***

Morning finds Snape with the empty house. The only thing that is different this time is the contract that Potter left for him in the kitchen. Snape reads through it – everything is simple and straightforward – he waives the right to be tried by his peers and requests both the trial and sentencing to be done by Potter. Snape signs the contract and places it with the pile of post at the doorstep for the owl to pick it up. 

Nothing is left now but to wait. 

Wait for Potter’s return, wait for the trial, just him and Potter and no-one else – that almost seems good. Wait for the verdict, wait to be relocated. 

Then, wait to get out, get his wand back... 

He counts the “waits” he will need to do and asks himself – once all the waiting is done, will there be anything left of him? 

He lets that thought go, as there seems to be no point in dwelling on it. 

This slow letting go of thoughts-ideas-expectations is a drain of sorts, too, because Snape isn’t certain what to replace them with. Death was easy to understand; it is much difficult to imagine a life in the world where everyone who still survives considers him guilty. 

Then again, that new life is still eight years away – sufficient time to get used to even that. 

He wonders why he still lives now that there’s no longer a reason for it, nothing in his past but a failed mission which, in the end, turned out irrelevant. 

He suspects that he simply lives out of habit. It’s not exactly a comforting thought.


	8. 8

Potter returns early enough in the day, mutters a quick hello, and begins to tidy up frantically, as if expecting company. Snape has a vague feeling that he should make himself scarce, perhaps, retreat upstairs, but he makes no move – after all, if Potter wants him gone, he’ll say so. 

Snape tries to assist but Potter waves him off, and he sits down in the armchair by the hearth. 

Potter flicks his wand to banish the dust from all the surfaces at once, casts a quick Scourgify on the kitchen floor and counter, and eventually, throws a cloth over the multiple boxes to hide them from view. 

“Entertain often?” Snape asks, not looking at Potter. 

“As you can see, not very often. It was crazy for the first two weeks after the war,” Potter answers absentmindedly, levitating a dirty mug into the sink. “Then, it was non-stop. The Muggle Prime Minister, the Muggle Chief Police Constables, you name it. Close to the end of the war, we were working closely with the Muggle government, so… we ended up having to debrief afterwards, and make plans for future cooperation.” 

“That’s why the house is so Muggle,” Snape guesses. “To put them at ease.” 

“Uhuh. I sort of reckoned, bringing them to Grimmauld with all the heads of the house-elves mounted on the walls wouldn’t be the best move.” 

“Probably not,” Snape almost smiles at the thought. 

A loud knocking on the door interrupts them, and Potter walks to answer. Snape lifts his head and is more than slightly shocked to see Tonks, who gives him a stare back that is no less shocked, but proceeds to take her wet bright red rain-jacket and hang it on the wall-hook. She’s lean and tall, although Potter is taller now, and Snape can’t help but notice how bulky her grey sweater is on her, and how baggy the khaki trousers seem. 

“I got your Patronus,” Potter tells her, not bothering to explain Snape’s presence in any way. “The agreement was for Saturdays. It’s Friday.” 

“I was hoping to visit Minerva in Johnstone, take Teddy with me. I won’t be back till Tuesday.” 

“Oh. Well then, let’s do this today, and check in with me when you return.” Tonks lowers her eyes, and Potter gives her a long, thoughtful look. “Do you think it’s too much?” he asks mildly. 

“No. It’s fine, of course.” She hands Potter her wand and follows him into the kitchen. Snape casts a quick look at the kitchen doorway, but it’s no use. Potter casts a silencing charm, which is followed by a dark curtain to obscure himself and Tonks from Snape’s view. 

Snape looks away again. 

Half an hour later, it’s all over, whatever “it” is. Tonks is heading out, Potter follows her to the doorstep. Just before she leaves, she whispers something in Potter’s ear, while giving Snape a quick and almost sympathetic look. 

“Are you sure?” Harry checks.

“Really. I don’t care if he knows. Bye, Harry.” 

She grabs her jacket and runs out of the house, the crack of Apparition coming a few seconds later. 

For a while Potter surveys his home as if it is a disaster area, then studies Snape’s face, before offering a quiet, “I believe I owe you an apology.” Seeing surprise on Snape’s face, he continues, “For… well, I said if you choose to be tried by me, you’ll get the maximum and all that. What I mean is - I really will listen to you. I will try to understand.” 

Snape rewards him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Things happen during the war,” Potter says softly, “things that … well. Tonks for example. When a few of us set off to rob Gringotts – long story – Bill and Charlie were helping us. And Tonks, as well. Remus still hadn’t returned from his last assignment, Teddy was supposed to be in hiding, with Andromeda, we didn’t really give it any thought. Only… ” Potter scowls and falls silent. Then begins to pace, round and round the couch. 

“Only what?” Snape probes.

“We didn’t know that both Remus and Teddy were taken prisoner by Voldemort’s people. But Tonks knew. She was blackmailed – if you could call it that. They were going to feed Teddy to Remus on the full moon, so they said. She gave up the information about our plans. We still made it, but Bill and Charlie both got killed protecting the rest of us. And – well. Here we are….” 

“So what was the outcome?” Snape asks.

“She asked that I deal with her. I did. She could never take part in a military operation of the Order. She will never work as an Auror. She will report for a Legilimency scan once a week, until half a year after the war is over.” 

Potter’s pacing is making him almost dizzy. Snape frowns, trying to reconcile these two stories in his mind – the story of treason and the story of mercy. He doesn’t know how to make them fit. 

Potter stops for a second and smiles unhappily. “Some said it was too harsh – to make a mother pay for saving her child’s life. Others said it wasn’t enough. I really don’t know anymore.” 

“What did Tonks say?” 

Potter shrugs. “She agreed to it all. She said she didn’t even care if I told you. Really, the hardest thing for her was having to stay back and wait while someone else led the rescue mission to break out Remus and Teddy from Malfoy Manor. I suppose that was kind of harsh, but I couldn’t afford to have someone… well, who we couldn’t rely on completely. After that was done, everything wasn’t so bad. She mostly got used to all that – including to the fact that Remus doesn’t see her anymore, and that the Weasleys – well, you can imagine their reaction.” Potter looks almost sheepish now. “Anyway. I’m not really good with that sort of thing, you know. Ambiguity. I prefer things black and white. But I do try.”

“I can see that,” Snape says mildly. 

“Well. I’ll try with you at any rate,” Potter continues with obvious reluctance, then finally ceases his pacing and sits down on the couch across from Snape. “I mean – different things happen in war. Were you under Imperius? Did Voldemort threaten you with someone you cared about? Or… I don’t know. Tell me why you did it. Why did you kill Dumbledore?” 

Snape allows himself a bitter smile at Potter’s words. Potter really seems so willing - to try to understand, to forgive, to be kind; it’s almost as if he wants Snape to give him a reason to be just that. Be kind. 

Snape shakes his head. It’s almost tempting to plead Imperius and throw himself at Potter’s mercy. Merlin knows, that particular excuse always worked well for Lucius… 

Snape shuts his eyes and wills the thought away. 

“I wasn’t under Imperius,” he says finally. “It was my choice.” 

Potter’s expression becomes unreadable. 

“Why did you do it?” he insists, a note of steel entering his voice. 

“Because Albus asked me to.” 

A long silence ensues. Potter stares at his own hands, clasped together, as if simply doesn’t know what to ask next. 

Snape waits, and eventually the next question follows.

“Why did he ask you to kill him?”

“He was cursed. I’m sure you saw his hand. I couldn’t stop the curse from spreading. He was going to die anyway. We considered our options… and decided if I used this opportunity to ingratiate myself to the Dark Lord, I’d be appointed the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I’d be in a position to protect the school.” 

“That seems kind of … convoluted,” Potter points out. “Azkaban was the most logical thing to consider.” 

“We didn’t think it would come to that,” Snape whispers. “I should have been able to evade you.” 

Potter sighs. 

“I see. Was there anything else you’d like to tell me? Anything at all?” 

Snape considers that question dutifully. He wonders if he should refrain from telling Potter of Dumbledore’s final message; certainly, there seems to be no point to it… Eventually, he settles for the option of telling Potter everything. 

“Yes. He – Albus thought that you would need to die in order to end the war. He was convinced that you carried in you a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul. I was entrusted with giving this message to you,” Snape adds, suddenly awkward, as he realizes how unlikely all of that sounds. He rises to his feet and gives Potter a quick nod. “I suppose the issue is moot, since he was obviously wrong. I will let you make your decision, Potter.”

He’s about to leave and head upstairs, when Potter sits up straight and raises his hand to stop him. 

“Snape. Don’t go.” 

Snape sits down at once, surprised that the decision, whatever it may be, was reached so quickly. Then again, Potter doesn’t seem the type to drag things out. 

“I believe you.” 

These three simple words knock the wind out of him. He first thinks he must have misheard, then – that he went insane and started hearing things. 

But as he studies Potter’s face, and listens to the silence that hangs between them, he slowly allows himself to breathe again.

“Why?” He manages to ask finally. 

Potter lets out a deep breath. 

“Dumbledore wasn’t wrong. I really did carry Voldemort’s soul fragment in me. I – nobody told me. I worked it out on my own. I was already going to stab myself with one of the Basilisk fangs that we carried with us during the Horcrux hunt… ” 

“Horcrux hunt?” Snape clarifies, trying to banish the all too vivid image of Potter with a Basilisk fang piercing his chest. 

“Horcruxes are—or rather – were—the vessels that contain Voldemort’s soul fragments. There were quite a few of them. That’s how he made himself immortal. Dumbledore didn’t tell you about that?” 

Snape shakes his head. “I suppose Dumbledore really didn’t see fit to put all of his proverbial eggs into one basket.” 

“Uh-huh. That man had a different basket for every egg.” Potter smiles sadly. “Well. In the end I didn’t have to do anything. Voldemort did everything for me, so to speak. Struck me with the Killing Curse – and ended up only destroying that part of him that lived inside me. I didn’t die—as you can see—just blacked out for a while. And – well, I saw Dumbledore while I was… somewhere in between life and death, I suppose. He told me that … you did it at his request… ” 

“Wait,” Snape says, as the first flash of genuine anger twists his gut. “You knew? All this time – you knew?” 

“Knew _what?_ ” Potter snaps back without missing a beat. “Snape, all I knew was that I blacked out and had a really weird dream. Until just now, I had no idea it had been real – I sort of reckoned that it was all in my head, that my subconscious generated some soothing story for me!” 

“Really,” Snape mutters. “And why would your subconscious come up with anything of the sort?” 

Potter gives a hapless shrug. 

“Maybe because it really hurt to think of you as a traitor. Even some two years later.” 

“Why? If I recall correctly, you spent your entire sixth year trying to prove to Dumbledore that I was guilty as sin. If anything, you should have felt vindicated to be proven right.” 

“Yes, well,” Potter mutters, “You’d think so, but … I suppose what it comes down to – I didn’t want to believe that Dumbledore was wrong, or that he was betrayed by someone really close to him.” 

Snape stares at Potter again, noticing hesitation in his expression, as if he’s holding back. 

“And?” he probes gently. 

“And – Dumbledore spent that year trying to convince me to trust you. I - I didn’t even realize how much effort I’d invested in trying to do that, trust you. Then, when you killed him… ” 

“It felt like you were betrayed on a personal level?” Snape guesses. 

“Yes. Something like that.” Potter runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that somehow makes him seem younger for a brief moment. “Look, Snape. It’s not over yet. I’ll require a Pensieve memory of your conversations with Dumbledore. And I will have to speak to the Advisory Board, they’ll need to ratify my decision.” 

Snape nods, suddenly worn out beyond all reason. 

“I will provide a Pensieve memory whenever is convenient for you,” Snape says, rising to his feet. 

“Tomorrow?” Potter checks. 

“That’ll be fine. Good night, Potter.” 

Snape retreats to his bedroom and lies on the bed, atop the blanket, pillow by the side of his head. 

He knows he needs to be happy, or at least relieved – and yet, it’s almost as if nothing has changed. 

He doesn’t know what to do with all this—Potter’s trust, the chance of freedom, the obligation to face the others… 

Not even a day ago, he had only a vague idea of how to get through the next eight years of incarceration, then – through the rest of his life – but now… now he draws up a blank. 

He doesn’t know how to get through _this_. 

He shuts his eyes and finds himself nearly afraid to fall asleep. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of more – to wake up and find out that this conversation with Potter was a dream, or to find out that it wasn’t.


	9. 9

The following morning Potter wakes him up and waits for him in the living room. When Snape comes out of the shower, he finds his regular clothing, cleaned and neatly folded on the side of the bed. It’s a disappointment of sorts to have to wear them again – he realizes he’s gotten used to Potter’s jeans and shirts, it’s almost as if he’s getting into someone else’s skin – which seems a great deal more comforting than Snape’s own. 

He puts on his boots, buttons up the robe and stands as straight and tall as he can, his back cracking in protest. 

In the living room Potter is already waiting for him, wand in hand. 

“The memories for the Pensieve,” he says. Snape notices that Potter looks almost apprehensive, almost as if he’s worried that his trust was misplaced, or that Snape might refuse. 

Snape doesn’t refuse. Him and Dumbledore arguing about Dumbledore’s death, the conversation about Draco’s soul, about Potter needing to die: Snape gives up those memories all too easily, feeling almost nothing at their departure, it is as if he’s grown numb to them, or, perhaps, stopped fully believing in them. 

Potter places the memories into the Pensieve bowl on one of the still unpacked boxes that has been placed between the armchair and the couch. 

“The others are going to be here any min…” Potter is interrupted by the cracks of Apparition – and a knocking on the door a few minutes later. Potter gives Snape a small smile and walks to open the door. Snape stands by the hearth, taking in the faces of the arrivals. He sees Moody, Granger following him closely, Percy Weasley, looking very sullen, Longbottom, who’s grown even taller than Potter, and a tall, grey-haired woman that Snape is surprised to recognize as Amelia Bones. The last to enter is Rufus Scrimgeour – and now it is Potter who is surprised. 

“Minister,” Potter says formally. 

“Potter. I’m here as an independent observer, nothing more. I will not be trying to influence the Order’s decision in any way.” 

“Agreed,” Potter says quietly. “All right, shall we get started?” 

Granger, Longbottom and Percy sit down on the couch, Amelia Bones takes the armchair. Potter flicks his wand to summon three additional chairs from the kitchen. Snape remains standing, and eventually all eyes in the room are turned to him. Potter looks at him too, hesitating only for a moment, before he says: 

“Sir, we’re going to need to be left alone for this. Where do you want to wait?” 

Without saying a word, Snape heads to the kitchen and takes the only chair remaining at the table. 

“Not very talkative, is he,” Longbottom’s voice is the last thing he hears before a dark curtain and silencing charms are cast, separating him from the gathering in the living room. 

Snape rests his elbows on the table and shuts his eyes. 

He knows it should take a while – eight people; give each fifteen minutes or so to view the memories, allow half an hour for deliberations… perhaps, longer, if there’s serious disagreement… 

He suspects he should be more worried about the outcome, but somehow he isn’t. He barely knows the people gathered there – the sullen Longbottom, the very quiet Weasley, the inhumanly beautiful Granger – 

… and Potter, of course, but Potter already believes him. 

Snape stands up, paces the kitchen aimlessly, then spots a cigarette pack on the counter – unopened. He picks it up, and Potter’s lighter, too, and sneaks outside to sit down on the porch. 

The countdown is easier that way – one cigarette, Potter views the Pensieve. Granger – another cigarette. Moody is the suspicious type, will likely take longer, best make it two. Percy Weasley, who lost two brothers and isn’t likely to be swayed easily, three cigarettes for him. 

The rowan tree branches are covered in frost, bright-red berries glistening with the thinnest sheen of ice. 

Quite belatedly, it occurs to Snape that the porch where he’s sitting is warm, much warmer than it should be, given the snowy dusting on the ground and the fence. He extends his hand forward and feels the bite of the cold on his fingertips. 

Snape can’t help but smile at that just a little – Potter must have cast a warming charm on the porch. 

He runs his hand over the wooden steps, feeling every groove and indentation in it. The pocket of warmth containing him is a strange place in between home and autumn, in-between the former life and what-is-to-come. Another cigarette; a tiny star of an ember falls onto the porch, _‘make a wish, Snape’ – ‘I want to stay here’_. The response is born automatically. He smiles wryly, realizing he wouldn’t mind it at all – to be able to simply remain here, in Potter’s home, with Potter, who is quiet, distant, self-contained… and entirely undemanding. If there were an option of serving eight years of incarceration in Potter’s home, Snape would take it in a heartbeat. Though he seriously doubts that the members of the Order would condemn their leader to sleep on the couch for eight years, no matter how cross they were with him. 

Either way, he must thank Potter for this time of transition, Snape muses. 

At the squeak of the door opening, Snape turns around and lifts his eyes to look at Potter. Potter’s expression is as usual – calm, barely readable, only a small shadow of regret seems to flash in his eyes. 

“We’ve reviewed your memories in the Pensieve and we talked,” Potter says mildly. 

“And?” 

“It was decided that it’s not enough,” Potter says, not bothering to take the time to soften the blow. 

“How so?” Snape asks, curious. 

“The memories are obviously genuine, but there’s some doubt about whether or not the actual events are. They could have been easily staged. Someone could have posed as Dumbledore under the Polyjuice potion and said all the right things to exonerate you.” 

“Hm.” Snape has to concede that Potter—or whoever came up with the idea—has a valid point. 

“I vouched for you, but my personal near-death experience wasn’t enough either. It’s too… subjective.” A brief note of irritation enters Potter’s voice. “Basically, we can’t reach a decision at this point. Half the advisory board is ready to ratify my decision, another half want more assurance.” 

“What more could I give them? The complete set of memories of all my teaching years since Voldemort’s return to assure that I hadn’t staged anything?” Snape queries, almost amused. 

The corner of Potter’s mouth twitches slightly. 

“Well, that’s an option, of course. Though it’d take a very a long time to review that. Plus…” 

“It’d involve someone literally watching every moment of my private life – and the answer to that is no. My freedom isn’t worth that much to me.” Snape shrugs. “When is the sentencing?” 

“I was just about to say,” Potter continues, as if he hadn’t heard the question, “there’s another option. A Legilimency scan that will review all that concerns Dumbledore.” The note of hesitation in Potter’s voice is impossible to miss. 

“Out with it, Potter,” Snape says. “What’s the catch?” 

Potter sighs.

“A year ago we developed a potion to suppress the brain centers responsible for Occlumency. It only acts for a few minutes. We’ve used it in interrogations—only when there was no other choice—and when information was needed urgently…” Potter sounds almost regretful about that. 

“Why hold back, if it really works?” 

“There’s some pain involved,” Potter explains, reluctant. “Though it’s not that bad, bearable, I’d say.”

“How do you know that?”

“I tested it on myself. Hermione did, too.” 

Snape stares at him. 

“Why would you do that? The risk seems unjustifiable.” 

“Well, I did want to make sure that it actually worked. And… I didn’t want to inflict any kind of pain on a prisoner - unless I was sure it was…tolerable.” 

Snape shakes his head, biting back the first response that comes to mind. 

Potter actually smiles this time. 

“Out with it. I can tell you’re holding back. You were going to say something scathing, no doubt.” 

“I wasn’t – except – it’s just so hopelessly… _Gryffindor._ ” 

Potter inclines his head. 

“I knew you were going to say that. So – what do you think?“ 

“Who would perform the Legilimency scan?” Snape inquires. 

“Any of the gathered that you choose. Well anyone, other than Scrimgeour, that is.” 

“Will you do it?”

Seeming startled by the offer, Potter stares at Snape for a long minute. 

“I – have to ask, why me?”

Snape can’t justify it in any way, not really, even to himself. Except that he can’t bear the thought of letting anyone else to have any claim on him. There’s been too many owners, let Potter be the last one. 

“I don’t know. Will you do it?”

“If you like.” Potter hesitates slightly, before adding, “Look, I know our history is less than brilliant, but I will not pry into … well, any other stuff. I will only check for what has to do with Dumbledore.” 

Snape smiles bitterly, a brief image of a much younger Potter, face buried in another Pensieve, flashes before his eyes, but he can’t work up the resentment that should likely follow that memory, nor can he understand how and when his past ceased to hold much meaning to him. 

“Fine.” Snape rises to his feet. “Let’s get on with it, then.” 

In the living room, they’re met with wary glances from all gathered. The Pensieve is still on the tabletop, and Potter lifts his wand to retract the memories from it. Snape receives them back in silence, and once again, it is as if nothing has changed. 

“Snape agreed to take Veritaserum-Two and submit to the Legilimency scan.” Potter’s announcement is met with silent nods. “I will perform the scan myself. You can witness it.” 

Granger quietly reaches for her purse on the floor by the couch. She produces a small vial, and before handing it to Potter, she lifts her right hand and says: 

“I, Hermione Granger, solemnly affirm that this is the genuine Veritaserum-Two formula, brewed by myself and Horace Slughorn, handled by no-one but me upon brewing.” 

Potter receives the vial from her and gives an affirmation of his own. 

“I, Harry Potter, solemnly affirm that I will perform the Legilimency scan diligently, with no intent to harm, and make every attempt to establish the truth.” 

This mixture of the formality and informality is strange, but Snape doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, as the vial is thrust into his hands. 

“Drink all of it, please,” Potter says. “There will be some discomfort; you may sit down.” 

“I’ll stand.” 

He empties the vial in one gulp and grimaces – the taste is atrocious, but worse is the sensation of near paralysis, every movement, every breath that’s too deep causing a dull throbbing ache in his limbs. His mind seems nearly as paralysed, laid bare and open. Purely by instinct he tries an Occlumency shield, to no avail. 

Potter’s wand points at him, and their eyes meet. 

Snape nearly misses the quiet _Legilimens!_ that follows a second later. 

This—being mind-naked before Potter—doesn’t feel bad, exactly. In itself, it doesn’t hurt, isn’t shameful, isn’t frightening. It merely has a sense of resignation to the ultimate destruction – much like being suspended in the grey mist beyond the doorway of the Arch in his dream. 

To Potter’s credit, he’s careful, sorting through Snape’s memories with lightning speed and nearly surgical precision. He doesn’t do so in chronological order, but in the most efficient way – following the paths of associations, making connections between events, weighing, evaluating, probing. The memory of Lupin’s arrival to Hogwarts turns out to be connected to the memory of Snape on his knees before Dumbledore, begging for the Potters’ lives, then there’s Voldemort, then Narcissa’s and Bellatrix’s visit to Spinner’s End and the Unbreakable Vow. Then – Snape arguing with Quirrell, then – the multiple arguments with Dumbledore about his impending death and the way it must be - and then, it jumps to Azkaban, Snape asking to speak to the Head of the Order. What follows next is the brief image of the brightly lit Azkaban’s shower room, smell of mildew, blood on the floor – and Potter recoils from that memory as if he’s been burned, and yet, Snape already knows he’s seen everything. 

It ends with the night on Tower, and Potter withdraws from Snape’s mind altogether. 

Snape doesn’t move. Slowly, he takes a deep breath as the state of near-paralysis is beginning to pass, and the ache in his joints is beginning to ebb. 

“It’s true,” Potter says softly. “He’s innocent.” 

Potter adds nothing else, of course, not that Snape thought he would. 

The room is silent for a moment, and then there’s a round of applause, and Snape doesn’t know who initiated it. Snape finds himself shaking Scrimgeour’s disfigured hand, then Moody slaps him on the back, then it is Granger who dives in for a handshake, and Snape notices an involuntary tremor in her ice-cold fingers.

“Sorry, sir,” she says breathlessly, “I insisted on this, too… well, we just had to be sure.” 

“Understandable,” Snape hears himself reply. 

“Welcome back, Severus,” Amelia says, rising from her chair. “Good to have you with us.”

Another moment later, Snape’s wand is thrust back into his hands, and he holds it tentatively, gingerly, not quite sure what to do with it now. Much like he doesn’t know what to do with people crowding him, some asking questions, like ‘do you need anything’ and ‘what will you do now’, some offering more congratulations, and he thinks that he hears Longbottom apologizing for something. Snape closes his eyes and silently waits for the commotion to pass. 

“Look,” Potter’s voice breaks through the clamour, “I don’t mean to be rude, but let’s do this later. I need some peace and quiet now, if you all don’t mind.” 

His eyes still shut, Snape hears them all leave, then – the sound of the door slamming shut.


	10. 10

Snape waits and counts the cracks of Apparition. When he’s certain that the last of the guests has departed from Potter’s yard, he heads out to the porch and sits down on the steps once again. He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes this time, simply holds his wand in his hands, having it rest between his palms. 

Potter lingers in the house for a few minutes, then comes out to sit on the porch. 

“I owe you an apology,” he says, turning to look directly at Snape. “I saw what I shouldn’t have.”

Snape shakes his head. Where there should be anger, shame, denial – there’s nothing, but the numbness of resignation that has become already familiar. 

“You were going by the book. It’s hardly your fault that my mind formed an association between Dumbledore’s death and – that.” 

“I shouldn’t have –” 

“I shouldn’t have killed him,” Snape cuts Potter off. “In the end, the way things worked out, Dumbledore died for no reason at all.” 

“I should have let you escape – back then,” Potter says. 

Snape shrugs his shoulders.

“I suppose we can be at it for hours, just naming all the things we could have done differently.” 

“If not days,” Potter concedes. “Still, I can’t help but think – maybe, if you were around, the war would have ended sooner. Maybe things would have been better at Hogwarts.” 

“Hogwarts,” Snape whispers, almost tasting the bitterness of that word. Not a home, just a memory… of a memory, a recollection of defeat, mingled with acknowledgement of failure. “How was it?”

“Not good,” Potter whispers. “Some students died. Luna and Marietta were killed after smuggling Basilisk fangs out of the school.”

“Marietta – not Edgecombe? Ravenclaw?”

“Yes, her. She had a falling out with us – Dumbledore’s Army, I mean, but joined up with us later. And remember Colin Creevey?”

“The boy with the camera,” Snape says numbly. “Yes, I remember.” 

“He died, too. Got in Carrows’ way.” Potter’s face grows ashen. “I used to really dislike him, you know. Now I can’t remember what it was about him that irritated me so much.” 

“But you wish it hadn’t.” 

“Yes.”

“Who else?” Snape asks. 

It’s just the names, one after another. Sixteen altogether, a second’s pause after each. Kingsley is gone, so is Charity Burbage. Filius Flitwick, who threw himself in the line of Alecto’s curse, directed at a third-year student. That student is gone, too, Orla – the small Ravenclaw. As an afterthought, Potter takes the time to inform him that Draco is fine, and so are the Malfoys; they managed to flee the country six months before the war’s end and never saw fit to return. 

When Potter is done, only one question remains. 

Snape asks that question.

“The school?”

Potter looks away. Snape follows his gaze and stares at the frost-dusted rowan tree, and the clusters of bright-red berries, frozen in windless cold. 

“Potter? The school?”

“As good as gone now,” Potter whispers. “Something happened during the final battle. The first time Fiendfyre was cast, the school … sort of contained it, until the curse exhausted itself. And the second time, too… and the third. But now…” Potter shrugs helplessly. “Seems like it was too much. It’s almost as if … that fire is eating away at the stone. Consuming it. Weakening it. Only a matter of time, I suppose. We couldn’t stop it.” 

“I see,” Snape murmurs. “Is that where you were spending your days and nights lately?”

“Yes. It’s all over now, anyway. The entire area is quarantined.” Potter bows his head, before murmuring, “She was alive, wasn’t she? Sentient… or at least, aware.” 

“Yes. I suppose you could say that.” Snape rises to his feet, and Potter follows his suit. “Thank you, Potter.”

Potter seems surprised by that, but manages a small smile. 

“You will be getting a pension of sorts, not a lot of money, but should be enough to live on. Hundred and twenty nine galleons a month…”

“Hm. More than my wages in my first year of teaching.” The image of Hogwarts’ towers crumbling, turning into dust flashes before his eyes, but Snape wills it away.

“True, though you had room and board there,” Potter says. “Speaking of which… I, er,” Potter stammers slightly, before continuing, “I wanted to ask you a favor.” 

“What’s that?” Snape asks, vaguely wondering how much Potter considers him indebted at this point. Perhaps, a great deal, given the fact that Potter single-handedly all but restored Snape’s freedom – but the thought of being _indebted_ doesn’t worry Snape as much as it would have at one point. After all, debts are only a concern when you’ve got something left to give. 

“Would you stay a while?” Potter asks. “With me, that is. I – I don’t want to see you leave right away. Not before – well, not before you know where you’re going.” 

Snape finds himself smiling at that, while he entertains the thought of staying in Potter’s house. To be left alone – and yet not entirely alone, with someone nearby – is a pleasant prospect. He imagines that they could likely spend decades together barely crossing paths, just being aware of each other… 

“Thank you,” Snape answers. “I will consider your offer. Even if you did phrase it as a request, doubtlessly expecting me to be indignant.” 

“I suppose I was expecting that,” Potter admits, a bit sheepishly. 

Snape shakes his head. “At this point, there aren’t that many things left that I can still get indignant about. An offer like that isn’t one of them.” 

If Potter is in any way troubled by Snape’s words, he makes no mention of it. 

“All right,” he says softly. “What now?”

Snape squeezes his wand tightly and looks to the gate. 

“I think I’ll go for a walk. See what’s out there.” 

Potter gives him a tiny smile. 

“It’s a Muggle neighbourhood. Cars, houses and roads. Come back home for dinner. I don’t need to go anywhere tonight. We’ll have normal dinner and talk.” 

“Thank you, Potter.” 

He walks to the gate, feeling Potter’s gaze on his back the entire time. 

***

Out there – is exactly like Potter had said. 

A quiet Muggle street, narrow road, narrow sidewalk. Potter’s house, Snape notes, is an oddity: the only one in the neighbourhood that’s completely fenced in – to allow the Apparitions to and from the yard to go unnoticed by Muggles.

Snape walks on, holding his wand in his hand, not daring to put it away. 

He wonders if he should try a spell of some sort, something easy, Lumos, perhaps, or Wingardium Leviosa, or – anything at all, just to make certain he can still do that, after two and a half years. 

He supposes that, if he can’t, there’s always a way back, to Potter’s home with cupboards stuffed with dry noodles and canned foods; he could easily spend a lifetime without any magic of his own, or anything of his own at all, he could likely get used to everything around him belonging to Potter and – that would be fine.

_I don’t want to see you leave right away. Not before – well, not before you know where you’re going._

Potter seems to mean it; he seems to be _kind_ in this distant, ‘it’s-the-right-thing-to-do’ way, and Snape suspects that if he never worked out where he’s going, Potter would just let him stay indefinitely, and not even notice the inconvenience. That’d be fine too – to be reduced to nothing but the prickling of the wool blanket on his skin, or the bitterness of cigarette smoke on the roof of his mouth… and the sound of Potter’s footsteps in the dusk. 

Snape continues to walk, never looking back. 

He comes to a crossing and turns a corner. A smaller street, sparse trees along the sidewalk, naked tree-branches look angry and wet and seem almost paralysed – not a twig moving or twitching – the cold autumn air is that still. 

He thinks that he needs to start walking back. Back to that house with cigarettes, hot shower and a warm bed with mismatched blankets, a house where nothing will be demanded of him again, a house where he from time to time will cross paths with the inhumanly beautiful Granger, limping Scrimgeour, and Tonks… and if he doesn’t feel like it, he wouldn’t have to see even them. Perhaps, in time, they’d stop noticing him, too. 

Snape stops in his tracks. 

He thinks of another neighbourhood a fair distance away, not nearly as normal and quiet as this, not nearly as welcoming, but _his_. Suddenly, he isn’t sure at all that the word applies. The memory of home seems vague, almost unreal – the run-down house, the small burned kettle on the countertop, a shadeless lamp in the sitting room… That, too, seems too normal, too ordinary.

For a quick second Snape is almost certain that’s a false memory, he wasn’t born there, he was born someplace else. Perhaps on the cold, barnacle-covered pier in the midst of the North Sea, perhaps, in the Azkaban cell, on the bed that had released one body only to accept another. He must have come up with that ordinary world all on his own—electric kettle and Eileen’s fairy tales and all—just so that there’d be something else – _anything else_ \- to come home to. 

The urge to see that _anything else_ is overwhelming, almost to the point of madness. The wand in his hand tingles, resting against his palm. 

When Snape utters the first spell in two and a half years, it’s not Lumos.


	11. 11

The Apparition takes him by surprise: it’s almost as if his magic itself takes its vengeance on him for more than two years of inactivity, or, perhaps, it tests him, stretching and bending, seeing if he’d break. To his shock, he finds himself—not even Splinched—at the doorstep of his old house in Manchester. The red brick of the house has a green dusting of moss here and there, and the paint on the door has began to flake – but other than that, it is as it always has been. 

He walks inside. The house is dark, but the light comes on when Snape flicks a switch and he’s relieved that the electricity hasn’t been turned off for nonpayment… yet. He makes a mental note to take care of all of those affairs, then recalls he’s got no money, then—the pension that Potter had mentioned—and then stops thinking about all that. 

He roams around the house and scowls, trying to remember…

The kitchen, where Eileen used to cook, hastily, impatiently, each time seeming regretful of the time wasted that way. The sitting room, where Narcissa was pleading for his help. The creaky staircase that leads upstairs, then—the bedroom—just as he’d left it. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed, awkwardly, tentatively, feeling like a stranger in town, checking into a motel room, rather than someone who’s come home. 

He lifts the pillow and pulls out the neatly folded nightshirt, left there two and a half years ago. He considers changing before going to bed – but the grey coarse fabric reminds him of the prison robe and Snape tosses the bloody thing under the bed. He unbuttons the robe and folds it, placing it on the bedside table, then, the wand still in his hand, climbs under the blankets. 

The blankets are cold and damp, and the air in the room is chilly, but Snape almost doesn’t care, he’s ready to fall asleep just like that, except for the vague feeling that he’s forgetting something. He isn’t certain what that is, not until he again becomes aware of his wand that he’s still clutching, hanging on to it like his lifeline. 

Of course. The drying charm, the warming spell, he thinks sleepily. He tries to cast nonverbally this time. 

A mere instant later, he’s warm and dry, though a great deal less sleepy: something feels slightly different about his magic now, it’s not bad – just different. He shifts under the blankets and points his wand at the ceiling. 

_Lumos Maxima._

_Yes, definitely different._

He can feel that change in his bones and just under his skin – even the simple spells are not the same anymore. It’s almost as if there’s so little left of him, and so little left to feel, that every burst of magic is experienced with unprecedented intensity – as if nothing else exists. 

It almost hurts. 

Snape doesn’t know what to make of it all: of the magic that has become unfamiliar, of himself, of his not-quite-home, of other Order members, (not-quite-friends)… and of Potter, left alone in that house of his.

For a while, he thinks of everything at once: Azkaban and the flutter of stormy petrel wings behind the window, unpaid electric bills, Hogwarts, about to fold and turn to ashes and dust, just as soon as the insidious fire finishes eating at her insides, the frost-dusted rowan tree in Potter’s yard…

He falls asleep quickly, thinking of the glistening red rowan berries in the midst of the windless fall. 

***

In the morning Snape is hungry and anxious at the same time. He knows the anxiety is ridiculous, but he can’t help it – the pangs of hunger bring with them the familiar terror of uncertainty; food in Azkaban may have not been plentiful, but at least it was regular. The only time he wasn’t fed was when a part of the prison collapsed and he ended up isolated from everyone – even the guards.

It feels a bit like that now. As if something has collapsed all around him; it’s an isolation of a different kind now, and there are no guards to bring him food. 

Snape leans on the kitchen table and shuts his eyes, hoping for anxiety to pass. He recalls the pension that Potter had mentioned and realizes that he doesn’t know where to get it, or how. He supposes he could ask Potter, but he doesn’t think Potter is home, besides, Snape isn’t even certain what day of the week it is… 

Anxiety continues to mount, and finally Snape breathes out a quiet “fuckitall” through his teeth. He is sure that if he only eats something, he’ll be able to think clearly. For now – he’s reduced to action: walk out of the house, lock the door, look around to ensure he isn’t seen, Apparate to what he vaguely remembers to be a discreet location near one of the Muggle supermarkets. He recognizes the red lettering with the broken blue waves of the underlining and makes his way to the entrance. 

Once inside, he’s made dizzy with the options and choices before him – juices, breads, yogurts, pre-packaged sandwiches, produce and meats; the fact that he’s got no money does nothing to stop him. He considers briefly the best way to pilfer what he needs without attracting any attention and settles on a simple Minimo charm, quietly reducing the items of interest to the size of a bread crumb. He’s about to get started on a packet of potato and leek soup, when he hears the familiar voice behind his back: 

“That’s very good, Snape – for a first time. It is your first time, isn’t it?” 

Wand concealed in the folds of the sleeve, Severus freezes. 

Potter continues to talk. “Ron and I used to do this, during the war. Though we started small – with packets of soy sauce. You know, you can eat just about anything, if you’ve got soy sauce.”

“Potter,” Snape manages finally. “What a startling coincidence.” 

“Not at all. You left before I had a chance to remove the tracking charms from you.” 

Snape remembers it then – those charms that are tied directly to Potter and to the Auror Department – and flushes at the humiliation of being caught in such a ridiculous way. 

“I forgot,” he whispers more to himself than Potter. 

“Yes, I sort of worked that out.” 

“Are you going to send me back?” all pride forgotten, he asks, without turning around. The anxiety continues to mount; he feels the tip of his wand pressing into his wrist, prodding him into action. _Run. Don’t talk. Don’t think. Run._

“What?” Potter, for a quick second seems utterly stumped, but then understands the question. “Nobody is going to send you anywhere. The Auror department doesn’t even know about this.” 

“But the tracking charm…” 

“Isn’t linked to a specific person in the Department. They stopped monitoring it on their end as soon as you were no longer a concern to them. Besides, even if they were still monitoring it,” Potter adds quietly, “it wouldn’t be – like that. They’d just make you give the stuff back and take you to the Ministry office where you could collect your pension.” 

The shame of it all, mingled with relief, is almost too much to bear, and it takes Snape a long time to reply. 

“It’s different now.” He turns around to look at Potter.

“I sure hope so,” Potter says mildly, surveying the pea-sized can of soup on the store shelf. “Tell you what, why don’t you put everything… back in order, and we’ll just shop. You can pay me back tomorrow.” 

Snape isn’t certain what it is exactly that urges him to give the brief nod of assent. Maybe it’s just the hunger or the weariness, but he allows Potter to do the shopping, which is just as well, because Snape has no idea what to get. 

Potter goes at it with surprising enthusiasm, a sweeping motion resulting in a great number of packaged soups and canned meats and fruits falling into a shopping basket he’s grabbed. “Those are good,” Potter explains, “some of them you just add water to, follow the instructions on the label…” 

They walk out of the store together. Potter manages to juggle the enormous number of bags and packets, without letting any of them fall. Once they’re out of the eyesight of the Muggles, Potter asks, “Can you Apparate us? I would, but it’d be rather awkward, the bags and all.” 

Once again, Snape doesn’t argue. 

It all feels shockingly normal—almost to the point of madness—Apparating back home, allowing Potter inside, sitting down at the kitchen table and watching Potter unpack the groceries and arrange them in Snape’s cupboard – with the mindless efficiency of someone who isn’t used to wasting time on this sort of thing. 

Snape allows himself a small smile, realizing that his kitchen cupboards are now an almost exact replica of Potter’s. He doesn’t mind it at all, although he half-suspects that Potter’s grasp of what constitutes good nutrition is as bad as his own at this point, and the expression “blind leading the blind” comes to mind. 

Potter catches his smile and smirks.

“I know, this isn’t exactly … healthy eating, but – fuck. Sometimes you just need to eat right away, and you don’t have time or energy for cooking, and for those times – well, this is perfect. Speaking of which, can we eat now? I’m hungry.” 

When Snape nods, Potter takes out a large egg salad sandwich and cuts it in half, then opens a large bottle of orange juice. They eat in silence, though Potter seems slightly on edge, or maybe just ill at ease. Snape watches him frown and slightly squirm in the chair – in an almost childish way. Once again, Snape is drawn to the details, the miniscule aspects of Potter’s appearance – the hair that’s been trimmed short, the weather-beaten cheeks, the chapped lips, and the calloused hands that cradle the glass with orange juice like some great treasure. 

_Funny thing, I almost forgot how young he is. Only eighteen… no, nineteen …_

“You said that you used to steal,” Snape probes. He doesn’t really expect an answer.

Potter nods, taking a sip from his glass. “Ron, Hermione and I - we got separated from the others during the Horcrux hunt. We were on our own for about half a year. We camped out here and there, and – well, to get provisions we’d … get out into town and – uh. Raid a shop. Steal, of course, not rob. Though – it took us a little while to work things out and start doing what you did. The first few times I just used the Confundus charm on an unsuspecting Muggle and got him to buy us everything.” 

Snape gives Potter a calculating look. “Have you got no shame at all?” he asks mildly and almost smiles.

Potter’s grin is completely unrepentant.

“Not really. Voldemort was just about ready to lay waste to the Muggle world, too. I reckoned, since we were working to save them as well, they should do their part and feed the troops.” 

Snape finds himself chuckling at that, but stops almost instantly, when he notices Potter draw his wand. Snape tenses, but doesn’t reach for his own and says nothing. Potter seems to notice that tension, because he says quickly:

“I still would like to remove the tracking charm from you. Unlike the Auror Department, I can’t just stop monitoring it on my end – the link is set up differently. It’s tied directly to me.”

Snape shuts his eyes, embarrassed to realize that he’s forgotten about the blasted tracking charm – yet again. It’s almost frightening how much unnecessary information his mind absorbs these days, and how much it fails to grasp.

“Was keeping me on a leash that much trouble for you?” Snape offers humourlessly.

Potter nods vigorously. “You have no idea. This irritating female voice buzzing in my left ear – _Severus Snape is proceeding on foot North-North-West, Severus Snape has Apparated to Manchester, Spinners End, number twenty seven…._ And so on. It only shut up when you went to sleep. Then, resumed again this morning and went on and on until I got to you.” 

“It does sound irritating. Why didn’t you follow me immediately?” Snape inquires, curious.

Potter shrugs. “I thought you might want to be on your own. If you hadn’t ventured out to Tesco, I would have come over in the afternoon.” 

_I don’t want to be on my own._ He doesn’t give voice to that thought, it’s disturbing enough as it is.

Snape doesn’t feel anything when the invisible tether is taken off him. A puppet, last string cut off, another disquieting thought comes. 

He is surprised that he wants Potter to stay. He doesn’t know how to ask, what to offer. A game of chess, perhaps – and then Snape realizes he doesn’t remember where the chess set is, and he isn’t all that certain he can beat Potter now. Then again, he’d likely settle for losing at this point – except… he still doesn’t know how to do this, how to be social, without it becoming even more awkward. 

“Do I owe you an apology?” Snape asks finally. “For leaving like that?”

Potter shakes his head. “No, of course not. I wasn’t surprised, either. Though I should have thought of the tracking charms right away. I mean… Now I know where you live, and I’m sure you haven’t planned that.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Snape says, and notices Potter expression become slightly more guarded. “I would have contacted you to thank you.” 

Potter gives him a disbelieving glance, but seems to relax at those words.

“Well, there’s definitely no need to thank me, either.”

“If not for you, I’d still be in Azkaban,” Snape says flatly. 

Potter looks like he wants to say something – maybe something of the sort – _if not for me, you wouldn’t have gone there_ \- but holds back. 

Snape shuts his eyes as the familiar twinge of resentment prickles at him, a faint bitterness, just barely-there, but still, definitely _there_. A part of him wants to blame Potter for everything, and yet, somehow, he can’t manage even that. 

In the end, Potter is the first to breach the silence. “I will make arrangements to have your funds owled to you – save you the trip to the Ministry. If that’s all right with you.” 

Snape nods and watches Potter walk to the door. 

Potter’s body seems thin as a stick under his bulky green sweater. Potter is tall these days, and even leaner than before, but it seems that he didn’t grow, just stretched himself unbearably long and thin. 

He still doesn’t want Potter to leave. Despite the resentment, the awkwardness – he just doesn’t. 

Potter turns to give him an awkward smile. 

“You know, you’re welcome to come by anytime you like. Come for breakfast one day.” 

“I don’t know your schedule,” Snape says. 

Potter shrugs. “I don’t know my schedule either. Things come up – whenever they come up.” 

“And if I walk in on your meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister, or the Chief Police Constables?” 

Potter’s grin turns genuinely happy. 

“Then you can join the meeting. Just as long as you don’t berate me in front of the constables.” 

Snape is startled to realize that Potter’s words aren’t a warning or rebuke of any sort. Potter seems to be _teasing_. 

“You ask too much of me,” Snape replies dryly. 

It does the trick: Potter laughs at that, though his laughter seems to be carefully portioned out: a single short-lived burst of it – and it’s over.

“I do want to see you again,” Potter says. And then, he’s gone.


	12. 12

The owl with his funds arrives in the afternoon. 

The next two days are strange, quiet and filled with mostly sleep, plus the small things that need to be done. Cast a Reparo on a cracked window in the sitting room. Cast a Scourgify on the floors, cleansing charm on the clothes. Put water in a pot, bring to boil, put noodles in – that’s easy enough, except the first time, Snape forgets to turn the stove on, and the second time he forgets the noodles. 

He opens the post at the end of the second day, remembering that he needs to exchange some of the currency and pay the blasted electric bill. That takes the entire morning and a good part of the afternoon of the following day, and at the end of it there’s nothing left to do, not really. 

Snape scowls as he stands at the doorstep of his house, picking at the flakes of the peeling paint on the door. He supposes he can go in and do more of the same – sleep, boil water, cast charms, sleep again. He wonders how long he’ll be doing that – and nothing else: a week, a month, a year?

The only “thing” left to do that doesn’t involve staying in the house – is paying Potter back for the shopping. He needs to do that, and he supposes that he could owl the money to Potter, but – he still doesn’t want to be alone - not all the time, at any rate. And it’s not like he knows anyone else. He doesn’t know what to make of all the others – Moody, Scrimgeour, Tonks. He suspects they don’t know what to make of him, either. 

He enters the house, counts off the galleons – seven, no sickles or knuts, and he’s certain that this should cover it. 

A crack of Apparition later, he’s in Potter’s yard, and seeing the familiar rowan tree and the weather-beaten porch feels more like coming home than returning to his own house had been. 

Snape knocks on the door. 

Potter opens almost instantly, gives him a stunned look and asks at once, 

“What’s wrong?” 

“How do you mean?” Snape is taken aback by the question. “I brought you your money.” 

“Oh.” Potter smiles a bit. “Sorry. I just thought…. Never mind. Well – good. Come in. Please.” 

Snape follows Potter into the kitchen and rests the envelope with money on the table. Potter makes no move to open it. A long and awkward silence ensues. Snape doesn’t know what to say, and Potter seems just as stumped – just fiddling with the hem of his sweater, and looking almost… lost. 

The silence becomes nearly unbearable, and Snape tries for teasing.

“So trusting, Potter?” He nods to the envelope. “I could be short-changing you.” 

Potter grins, catching on quickly. 

“You could, yes. But then - I know where you live.” 

They both laugh – once again, awkwardly, and not very happily. Snape’s hand rests on the surface of Potter’s kitchen table. There’s no point denying that he missed being here, much the way a cat misses a familiar house. Or maybe it was Potter he missed – there’s no way to tell. 

Snape shakes his head, and lifts his eyes to look at Potter. He knows he needs to do more of the same—banter-teasing-small talk—but he really doesn’t know how. 

“You seemed shocked to see me,” Snape says bluntly. “You asked me if something was wrong. Why?” The question comes out almost harsh, but Potter doesn’t seem to take exception to that, he just shrugs. 

“Force of habit. Lately – the only time someone comes to my doorstep is when something is wrong, or some problem needs to be solved. Store extra supplies for St. Mungo’s, help with search and rescue, and so on.” Potter doesn’t sound like he’s bothered by it. 

“Your friends?” Snape surprises himself by asking. 

“They’re much the same. I mean – people come to them when something is wrong. Hermione is storing books from Hogwarts library now that the school is quarantined…. It’s been hectic. It’ll settle down… eventually. I guess.” Potter looks at him. “So, this is a social visit, right?” Snape thinks he hears hope in Potter’s voice. 

“Well… it’s not an _antisocial_ visit.” 

Potter almost smiles at that. 

“Neat. I’m going to make lunch. Help me?” 

“All right.” 

Cooking isn’t exactly a complicated affair: Snape chops the tomatoes, the cucumbers and the yellow peppers, while Potter steams two pieces of fish. 

“How was food in Azkaban?” Potter asks matter-of-factly. 

“It was fine. Do you want salt on the salad?”

“Yes, and some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. And pepper. What kind of food?”

“It was an unidentifiable porridge-like substance.” 

“That’s what I heard, too. Not sure just how much nutritional value it had… I’d say – check yourself out at St. Mungo’s to make sure you’re all right after two years of… that, but they’re so overcrowded these days, you’re unlikely to be seen. Well, unless there’s a genuine emergency.”

“Overcrowded, even now?” Snape asks.

“Yes. The last search-and-rescue mission was a week and a half after the war ended. We brought the injured to St. Mungo’s and … well, many of them are still there. Some poisons are difficult to identify – and experimenting with antidotes at near random can only get you so far. And if that wasn’t enough – St. Mungo’s itself came under Voldemort’s attack near the end of the war, many healers were killed, defending the hospital…”

Snape almost freezes, realizing that Potter came for him just as soon as the last post-war search-and-rescue mission was over – _just as soon as he could_. That means something – and probably more than it should. 

Then, Snape’s thoughts turn to the issue at hand. 

“I could try to help. I can’t promise anything, but I can attempt to identify the poisons, based on the test results and symptoms. If you bring me the medical charts of the patients.” 

Potter turns around abruptly.

“Yes, I can do that,” he says calmly. “In fact, I’m going to do that right now – I’ll be back in ten minutes or so.” 

Potter walks out of the house and a loud crack of Apparition announces his departure. 

Snape finishes preparing lunch, then eats his portion without waiting for Potter. Potter’s plate is left waiting for him under a stasis charm. 

Snape smiles. He finds that being alone in Potter’s home soothes him. His life is just as undefined here as it is anywhere else – but somehow, here, he is at peace with the lack of definition. Snape looks around, taking in all the familiar little details of Potter’s home—the boxes on the floor, the clock on the wall just above the hearth, the couch that still has pillows and blanket thrown over it—and he commits all those mundane details to memory for later, for a time he’s no longer here. 

Potter returns half an hour later, carrying a pile of medical charts. He strides into the kitchen, places the papers in front of Snape and sits down to eat. 

Snape begins to study the medical charts, and something catches his eye on the very first page. He goes through the charts frantically, seeing more and more of the same on each and every one. 

Across the table from him, Potter lifts his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Potter asks between bites.

“These test results don’t make sense. Or – rather, they would, if all the injured were Squibs, or Muggles.” 

“They were Muggles,” Potter says softly. “Voldemort had the very bright idea to run some experiments, test some poisons on Muggles – see if they affect them the same way as they do wizards. We ended up taking them to St. Mungo’s.” 

“Why would he do that?” Snape asks. 

“The way he explained it to his followers is that he wanted to explore what makes us different from them. To be honest, I just think he was … well, crazy.” 

“You don’t say,” Snape doesn’t lift his eyes from the papers.

“No, I mean, with the destruction of each Horcrux he became more and more unstable. It’s like, whenever another part of him was gone, he got even more unhinged. Even less human. In the end, it was pure chaos; there was no way of predicting what he would do next – his behavior defied logic.” 

Snape lifts his head at Potter and sees a strange look on Potter’s face.

“How was it?” Snape asks. He doesn’t elaborate what “it” is, but Potter understands.

“I don’t know,” Potter says quietly. “In the end, I almost felt like I was executing someone, but… just not all at once. Killing him bit by bit, making him less and less human. And each time we destroyed a piece of him – more madness came.”

“You must realize, that’s not the case,” Snape says at once. “About you – being an executioner.”

“Yes. Well, I did say _almost_.” The corner of Potter’s mouth twitches slightly. He doesn’t finish his lunch – just puts the plate with leftovers in the fridge and sits down at the kitchen table, casting a look at the medical charts. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Bring me reference materials. I will make you a list of books I will require. They were available in Hogwarts library – if Granger has the entire contents of it, then nothing more is needed.” 

***

The rest of the day is spent studying the charts, making notes, consulting the reference materials. It is almost evening when he’s able to identify the three poisons at work. The first two are potentially lethal, but treatments do exist – a series of potions and healing spells, and Snape pulls out the appropriate instructions for Potter to take to St. Mungo’s. 

Identifying the final poison, the one that had affected five of the victims, takes less than a minute. Snape double-checks the records to make sure he isn’t mistaken, then shakes his head. 

“What?” Potter asks. “No cure?”

“Not unless one was developed in the last two and a half years.” 

“What poison is this?” Potter asks. 

“It has no name. It contains Crab’s Eye, Aconite, and a number of obscure and difficult to obtain ingredients – the names will be meaningless to you.”

For a long minute, Potter studies his face. 

“You developed that poison, didn’t you?” Potter asks. 

Snape lifts his head and meets his gaze. 

“Yes.” 

“Have you ever attempted to develop a cure?” There’s no accusation in Potter’s tone.

“Yes. I made some progress, but then Dumbledore’s illness resulted in my research taking a detour. I never completed that piece of work.”

“Could you complete it now? Or at least recreate the work you had done.” 

“I don’t know. I doubt that. I am sure someone else could – if my records were available. Did my property get confiscated once I was sent to Azkaban?”

Potter shakes his head. “No. Frankly, at first, nobody even thought of that. Then the Carrows took over the school, and, well, before placing Hogwarts under quarantine, we only took out the absolute essentials. There wasn’t much time for anything else – sections of the school were becoming unstable.” 

“I see. Pity.” 

Potter grins unhappily. “Who could have known that one day you’d regret that your property didn’t get confiscated.” 

“Indeed,” Snape says. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Potter muses, “where will all the ghosts go… once the school is no more. Will they remain to haunt the ruins, or will they… move on once nothing is left there?” 

“Chances are they will simply cease to exist. Seeing that they are merely imprints of human spirit on the places that used to be their home.” 

Potter winces at that. Snape watches him thoughtfully and finds himself unable to decide whether Potter looks younger than his age – or older. Perhaps, it’s both. Potter gives the impression of someone who, in the last two and a half years, has managed to accumulate a decade's worth of memories, and still remains young. 

Potter’s home, too, feels young. Snape isn’t certain that makes sense, but everything here feels new—even the things that are old—like Potter’s textbooks in a tidy pile by the wall, and the couch that has clearly seen better days. 

Potter intercepts his gaze and smiles. 

“The couch came with the house. Seemed to make no sense to get rid of it. It does the trick.”

“It can’t be very comfortable to sleep on.” 

“Well, I’ve made it back to the bed upstairs now,” Potter says. “Stay for dinner?” 

Snape stays. 

In the evening Scrimgeour comes by with a bottle of Firewhiskey. They drink together, and, not surprisingly, talk about the school. Snape finds out that it was Lupin, McGonagall and Granger who had put up the wards to quarantine Hogwarts.

“Not a moment too soon,” Scrimgeour says, addressing Snape, “looters were already eyeing it. I wasn’t looking forward to sending Aurors to rescue all sorts of opportunistic scum who’d take advantage of an abandoned school and get themselves trapped in it…” 

“Understandable,” Snape agrees. “Where did the students go?”

Scrimgeour scowls. “Durmstrang took some, but only the sixth and seventh years. Beauxbatons refused – said it wouldn’t be a good fit. Of all the selfish, inconsiderate…” 

“Oh for crying out loud, Rufus,” Potter says, “Forget Beauxbatons. Why does everything need to be such a problem? By next September a new school will be built. For now, we’ll homeschool the students.”

“That’s three hundred and fifty students we’re talking about,” Scrimgeour protests. 

“So? Break them up into - oh, I don’t know, thirty five groups of ten and send them over to stay at wizards’ houses and study, then have them trade places. Or we could rent several large houses somewhere. Or one huge property. The point is, we have options. I don’t see why you’re acting like it’s the end of the world.” 

“Whatever we do, we need to do quickly,” Scrimgeour protests. “It’s October.” 

“By January we’ll have it worked out. So they will start school half a year late – what’s the fuss?”

Scrimgeour grumbles a bit longer, and then settles down again. They talk some more and drink until the bottle is empty. Banter between Scrimgeour and Potter continues, sometimes erupting into a heated argument, then dying down, and Snape doesn’t participate in it, nor does he keep track of it. Somehow, just being here, and listening to the human voices is enough – even if the words don’t quite register, and Snape reclines against the back of the couch and shuts his eyes. 

The talk of Hogwarts brings back a vague uncertainty when Snape remembers Potter’s school years – but he no longer knows what to make of them. They seem far more distant than they should, given that only two and half years had passed since those days. 

He is startled when he hears his own name, and understands that he entirely missed what was said. 

“Pardon me?” 

“I said we should do this again,” Scrimgeour repeats. He’s already on his feet and obviously ready to head out. “Though next time, you should bring the whiskey.” 

Snape ends up shaking Scrimgeour’s disfigured hand, and notes that his handshake misses nothing in strength - the remaining three fingers grip as tightly as all five would. 

When Scrimgeour is gone, Potter remains seated in the armchair by the fireplace. He fiddles mindlessly with the empty bottle, then lifts it toward the light – as if trying to see something inside. 

“Thank you,” Potter says quietly. 

“For what?”

“For not staring. People tend to stare at him a lot. He doesn’t like that.” There’s a distinct note of protectiveness in Potter’s voice. 

“What happened to him?” 

“Voldemort tortured him to find out my whereabouts. Left him for dead afterwards.” 

“He didn’t say anything?” 

Potter smiles unhappily. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

Snape rises to his feet. 

“It’s late. I should go.” 

“Okay. Will you bring the whiskey next time?” 

“Doubtful,” Snape says, as he heads to the door. Potter walks with him, and for a long minute they stand on the porch, looking up at the overcast night sky without a star in sight. There’s no rain, and hasn’t been in days, but the mere promise of it is enough to start feeling chilled and damp. 

“No Firewhiskey,” Snape says finally. “How do you feel about scotch?”

“Hate it.” 

“Mead?”

“Mead is for birds.” 

“Slughorn would be gravely offended to hear that,” Snape points out. “Very well, I will not argue the point. Absinthe?”

“Never tried it. You should bring it. You know, introduce me to the ways of the world.” 

Snape scoffs. “I see you already got yourself a head start. Cartons of cigarettes in your kitchen cabinet.” 

“Never tried them, either. They are for the Muggle Constables – when we meet. Those guys smoke like, well, like the Hogwarts Express.”

Snape nods goodbye and walks out of Potter’s yard, taking care to ensure the gate is shut. Once that is done, Snape leans against the tall fence and ponders if he’s drunk enough to qualify as a “stranded wizard” for the Knight Bus. Then he realizes he no longer knows if the Knight Bus is still running, and what areas it services. Chances are it’s a thing of the past, just like the Hogwarts Express - just like many other things that used to belong to a world now gone. Snape doesn’t know what those things are—yet—but he has a feeling he’ll find out soon enough. 

He takes a deep breath to allow the Firewhiskey-induced dizziness to pass, then Apparates home.


	13. 13

At night Snape dreams of Azkaban – the brightly lit room, with water pooling here and there on the tile floor, and a wide wooden bench, at the foot of which his prison robe is folded. In his dream there’s no pain or shame – just the vague, unsettling near-awareness that there must have been another life before all of this. 

Snape opens his eyes and gets out of bed. For the longest time he stands by the window and stares out at his backyard, where the wilted grass and the fallen leaves are delicately rimmed with white. The dream fades quickly, but Snape is left with the strangest suspicion that along with it, he’s forgotten something important. 

He scowls and tries to remember what that is while he goes about his morning routine. He recalls last night, the conversation about Hogwarts, then – the events of the day and working on the medical charts from St. Mungo’s in the attempt to identify the poisons…

Muggles at St. Mungo’s. Poisons. School quarantined. 

Snape strides out of the house without finishing breakfast. 

Apparating is still somewhat unsettling, even more so because, in the first few seconds, Snape doesn’t understand where he ended up. He looks around, notices familiar landmarks of the hills and woods – and takes a deep breath. 

No, there’s been no Apparition accident – he’s in Hogsmeade – what’s left of it. 

There are ruins and sites of fires, houses with roofs caved in and walls breached. The few dwellings that are still standing have been abandoned, windows and doors boarded up. Snape winces: Potter hadn’t mentioned that. 

The air is cold; it feels almost like winter has arrived, deciding to skip October and November altogether; the whitish flakes of ash underfoot seem like a different kind of snow. 

It takes Snape twenty minutes to get to the Hogwarts grounds. 

For a while he stands in silence and stares at the old castle through the nearly opaque wall of the quarantine wards. He can barely make out the towers – he thinks that one of them might have collapsed, but it’s difficult to tell: the school’s outline is murky and blurred. 

Snape takes out his wand and takes a furtive look around. Nobody is here, but he doesn’t feel like taking chances. He suspects that breaking through the Ministry-sanctioned wards isn’t going to be dismissed as easily as attempted theft from Tesco. He casts a Disillusionment charm on himself, then follows it up with another one to mask his footsteps, and finally points the wand at the nearly opaque wall separating him from the school. 

The network of quarantine charms is intricate and skillfully wrought, layers upon layer of resilient defensive shields with an internal alarm system -another set of spells that hold those layers together like stitching. Anything he does is likely to set off the alarm system – and Snape isn’t quite ready to try that yet. Maybe as a last resort. 

He begins to examine the network gently, carefully, sending a delicate roaming probe-charm around the perimeter and waiting for it to return. 

While the probe crawls in the web of the quarantine charms, Snape shuts his eyes and waits. 

His mind is oddly blank – there’s no anxiety, no excitement at doing something “forbidden”. If asked, he’d be hard-pressed to explain why he’s doing it - but he isn’t especially bothered by it. “Blank” is good. He can definitely live with “blank”. 

The probe returns, advising him that there’s a weak spot in the network – about fifty feet ahead. Snape decides to take his chances there, deactivates the probe and begins to walk, counting off the footsteps in silence. 

At twelve he feels moderately lucky; twenty-six he wonders why a skillfully crafted network like this would have a weak spot to begin with, at thirty-nine – he makes a mental note to be extra careful when he gets there, and at forty-three, he trips over an invisible obstacle of some sort. 

The retaliation is instantaneous and brutal – he’s tossed away and thrown onto his back, his head striking against the rocky ground almost hard enough to knock him out, but not quite. His wand flies out of his hand, and he makes a feeble attempt to roll onto his side and search for it, when the final bit of retribution comes – the counterspell, removing the Disillusionment Charm. 

“Snape!” Potter’s voice exclaims. Snape groans and sits up, gingerly, tentatively, just in time to see Potter shed his Invisibility Cloak and take a step toward him.

Snape shakes his head and looks around until he finds his wand – a good fifteen feet away. 

Potter waits for him in silence while Snape retrieves the wand and stands up straight – which takes no small effort, his entire body feeling bruised. 

Potter gives him a rueful smile. 

“You know, I could detain you. For trying to enter a quarantined area.” 

“You could – except you’re here for the same reason, if I’m not mistaken,” Snape points out. “Besides, I’ve done nothing illegal yet. All I did was send out a probe. You, on the other hand, have already created a weak spot in the network…” 

Potter shrugs. 

“I better have – I’ve been at it since four in the morning.” 

Snape almost smirks at that. 

“What I don’t understand is why you, of all people, are going about it in such a convoluted way? I mean, it’s almost a given that I’d be refused entry, but surely, you…”

Potter’s shoulders twitch slightly again. “Yes, I could have asked. I could have gotten in legally. And Ron and Hermione would have insisted on coming with me. And Scrimgeour would have sent a unit of Aurors, and – well, you get the idea. And it’d be pointless. It’s not like having more people along would improve my chances of success.” 

“It wouldn’t,” Snape concedes. 

“I don’t suppose we could just Accio your records out of there?” 

“Anti-summoning charm.” 

Potter nods, points his wand at the shimmering wall separating them from the school and resumes his work. Snape watches in silence as, one nonverbal spell after another, the gap in the wards becomes wider and taller. 

“This will do,” Potter says finally. “Let’s go.” 

They slip between those shimmering layers and a mere moment later they stand on the school grounds. The school herself looks battered – broken windows gaping, stonework damaged in different places, the Astronomy tower gone altogether – and yet, Hogwarts still seems… solid. Still standing. 

Potter notices Snape’s expression and sighs.

“Looks are deceiving. It’s… okay for now, but it’s only a matter of time until it collapses, and the fire breaks out. Nothing can withstand this much internal pressure indefinitely. Let’s just hope it doesn’t happen while we’re inside.” 

Soon enough they stop at the entrance, not going in just yet. Potter casts a complex charm to test the structural integrity of the castle. Snape’s hand touches the weather-beaten wall. It’s almost as if he can feel the slightest tremor of the stone bracing itself against the fire burning deep within. Maybe he can – maybe, indeed, there’s so little left of him now, that the only thing he still feels is magic – his own, or someone else’s. 

Or maybe he’s gone insane. 

Either way, he has the sense that the castle will endure them both — for the moment. 

Still, when he and Potter stare at each other, Snape can’t escape the distinct impression they’re about to say the same thing - _you should stay behind_. 

It’s reasonable, there’s no need for both of them to take risks, and Snape is about to say that, but something in Potter’s eyes stops him. He looks at Potter some more and understands it – the need of someone who likely had to stay behind too many times, because it was reasonable, required, and needed. 

In the end, Snape says nothing at all, and neither does Potter. They enter the school together. 

The hallways are dark; the school looks both the same as always and imperceptibly, subtly different - as a corpse about to be laid to rest looks almost—but not quite—human. This ‘almost’ is enough to drive him completely insane with the need to touch and feel, look for familiar portraits, to call out to someone – except there’s nothing really left to touch, and nobody left to call out to. 

They cross paths with the Bloody Baron, who hovers at a slight distance, surveying them sceptically. 

“Have you come to save the school?” he inquires. 

“I’m afraid not,” Harry says softly. “We don’t know how.” 

The Baron scoffs. “You don’t know. So you’ve marooned us here, and abandoned us. After all this time.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “We don’t know what else to do.” 

Snape stills, fully expecting a violent outburst from the Baron, but nothing comes. Perhaps, he doesn’t have it in him anymore – or perhaps, all arguments have been exhausted by now. Either way, the Baron simply disappears, and their path is clear again. 

When they arrive at Snape’s rooms, Potter waits by the door, and Snape doesn’t invite him inside. He looks around his living quarters, for a moment sorely tempted to grab as much of everything he sees—potion ingredients, records, books, letters—all the things that belong to some other life he can almost remember – if only he could grab hold of it and touch it one more time. 

In the end he simply gathers the notes with his research, rolls them up and places them in the pocket of his robe. 

“Anything else?” Potter asks. “We likely won’t get another chance to come back.” 

Snape shakes his head. Perhaps it’s superstition – but attempting to take too much feels dangerous, as if trying to carry too heavy a load while treading on thin ice. 

Potter seems to understand without words. 

They leave the school without incident and make their way back to the outside world through the gap in the quarantine field. Potter takes a few minutes to close that gap, while Snape casts the Geminio charm on his records. He keeps the originals and hands the duplicates to Potter. 

“You may take these to St. Mungo’s.” 

“I will do that now,” Potter says and glances quickly at Snape’s fingers, clutched around the parchments. “Maybe you will come up with something as well.” 

“Maybe,” Snape echoes. He finds the prospect doubtful, but isn’t inclined to argue. 

“You all right?” Potter asks, giving him a quick concerned glance. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“I don’t know. Just, you seem…” Potter shrugs, seeming at a loss for words. “I don’t know.” 

“I have a feeling I’ve forgotten something,” Snape says, not sure whether he’s addressing himself or Potter. 

“I’m sure it will come back to you,” Potter says awkwardly, and adds, just as awkwardly, “It was good last night. Do you want to come over tonight? With absinthe and all?” 

“Maybe.” 

The corner of Potter’s mouth twitches slightly. “What’s with all the ‘maybe’s? Just say ‘yes’. Change your mind if you want, stand me up if you must – but say ‘yes’ now.” 

Despite himself, Snape finds Potter’s mirth contagious. “All right then. Yes.”


	14. 14

When Snape enters the liquor shop, he begins to understand Potter’s concern for his well-being. Truth be told, he isn’t feeling quite right – though he doesn’t know what it is that ails him. A touch of fever, a spell of dizziness – and a weariness that doesn’t seem to subside. He’s surprised that something so simple as a trip to Hogwarts has worn him out so completely and almost regrets saying that ‘yes’ to Potter. 

He lifts a bottle of absinthe to the light, staring at the sparkling green.

The price ends up being just over forty pounds, which he pays without giving it a second thought. Once he’s outside, another spell of dizziness claims him, and he resists the urge to press the cold bottle to his forehead.

He prepares to Apparate home, though for a quick unsettling second he isn’t certain where home is. He thinks of Potter’s house (no, that’s not it), then, Hogwarts (no, not there), Potter’s house again, then (finally) Spinner’s End. 

Apparition hits him hard, making him believe he might have Splinched himself – it’s almost as if his back has been sliced open. His drops the paper bag with absinthe on the steps, the glass cracks and Snape mutters a quiet obscenity. Flicking his wand to Evanesco the remnants of his purchase seems more effort than it’s worth, and Snape simply steps over the whole sorry mess and enters the house. 

He barely makes it to the couch and falls face down, then takes a deep breath and tries to understand what’s going on with him. It’s not Splinching, he’s certain of that now, but it still hurts, more than anything has as of late. 

He stills when a terrifying thought crosses his mind – that he might still be back in Azkaban, and the events of the past two weeks are nothing but a convoluted fantasy. He can almost hear the words of his executioners, _consider it a parting gift; something to remember us by_ – over and over again. 

He struggles to keep his eyes open, focus on anything that is familiar and real – the fabric of the couch, the floor, his own hand, still gripping the wand. 

The disorientation passes, but then – it all gets to be too much. Too much pain, too much effort… and, just in general, it seems that too much has been crammed into the formerly barren space of his life.

Just as he’s about to pass out, Snape knows exactly what has happened to him – it’s laughably obvious, pity that he didn’t remember it sooner. 

***

When Snape comes to, it’s to the sensation of someone’s hand, shaking him awake. His back still hurts, although it’s not quite as bad as before – then again, it helps not to be moving. 

His eyes half-shut, he notes that the living room is dark; it must be evening already. He remembers the broken bottle of absinthe at the doorstep, visit, promised to Potter, Hogwarts, his own research notes, still rolled up and tucked away into the pocket of his robe. The recollections quickly transform themselves into a ‘to-do list’: clean up the porch, review the notes, tell Potter he isn’t coming, and Hogwarts – where on earth does that fit? 

He opens his eyes and sees one thing with crystal clarity: Potter’s face right in front of him. Potter’s lips move, but Snape doesn’t know what exactly is being asked of him. Then everything is blurry and fuzzy again, including Potter, though Snape does make out just one phrase – _take you home_?

Home – Snape instantly thinks of Potter’s house with the simple kitchen, the shabby couch, and the quiet bedroom. That thought brings a relief with it that he didn’t know was possible. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he needs to decline, but more than anything else in the world he just wants to return there: a place where nothing is demanded or expected of him, a place without any ‘to-do’ lists of his own making or someone else’s. 

_Home_ , Snape agrees. 

He doesn’t hear his own words, but Potter does – just before Snape blacks out again. 

***

_Home_ smells of fresh linens, tea, pot-noodle snacks and potions – everything at once. It takes Snape a long minute to understand where he is – in the same bedroom where he usually slept in Potter’s house. 

Potter’s hand stays him when he makes an attempt to lift himself up by his elbow, and Snape yields, falling back face down into the mess of pillows and blankets. 

There’s an aftertaste of an analgesic potion in his mouth. Snape licks his lips – he doesn’t remember drinking it, but he must have - the pain has ebbed to a dull ache. 

The bed inclines slightly when Potter sits on the very edge of it.

Snape fully expects needing to explain, but Potter anticipates his words. 

“No, it’s okay, I get it,” he says. “It’s black moonwort draught – we’ve seen it. Was used by Voldemort’s people for slow torture – the poison lies dormant for a while, then causes the wounds to re-open every – well, four weeks or so. I take it you didn’t know?” 

“I knew,” Snape says tiredly. 

“Then why didn’t you …” 

“I forgot. I forget things.” The shame that should accompany that admission simply isn’t there. There’s only weariness and that mind-numbing relief that Potter doesn’t ask anything else. 

There’s no shame in any of that which follows either: being stripped of the bloodied clothing, being stark naked before Potter, having Potter’s hands, slick with ointment touch, touch and soothe the injured flesh. 

Snape shuts his eyes. 

Perhaps he’s too well-trained in rituals of obedience and has become desensitized to being exposed before someone – anyone.

Or perhaps, he’s too bloody tired to care. 

With Potter’s hands on his back, Snape falls asleep. 

***

The next three or four days are spent in a blissful haze between sleep and waking. Snape suspects that he’s being fed, made to drink potions, then left alone for a while. From time to time he is vaguely aware of Potter sitting on the very edge of the bed, tucking the blanket, casting a drying charm on a sweat-drenched pillow… It feels good - to _almost_ know what’s happening – but not quite. 

It even feels good to have Potter’s hands on his back and backside, ointment-slicked fingers running along the quickly healing lacerations on his skin. Snape’s back learns the texture of those hands to the smallest detail: rough, calloused, wide, warm, steady. Occasionally he finds himself battling an almost childish desire – to turn to Potter, press his face into Potter’s palms, and just feel more of that oddly soothing, steady human touch. Then, even before the urge has a chance to become overwhelming, Snape falls asleep again.

Snape still isn’t quite sure why Potter is doing all that. He’s glad that Potter doesn’t ask anything and whatever he says goes right over Snape’s head. 

Yet, he knows that a morning will come when he’ll wake up feeling perfectly fine and perfectly awkward, and he doesn’t want to wake up into that. Into the awkwardness, into a life with more ‘to-do’ lists and tasks, and without human touch.


	15. 15

It takes Snape four days to make a full recovery and another day to finally venture outside the familiar comforting walls of the guest bedroom. He showers, then, for the first time since arriving back to Potter’s place, notices that Potter never bothered to throw away Snape’s toothbrush – it’s still standing in the small glass on the sink counter. For a second, Snape stares at the two toothbrushes side by side, his, bright purple, Potter’s, lime green, and finds himself wondering why it bothers him so much… 

He’s slow at everything he does – still moving as if submerged in water, despite the fact that he feels – fine. In Azkaban, it had taken him longer – all in all, nine or ten days to return to some kind of normalcy after the last punishment. And yet, he doesn’t remember being quite so _frail_ – unable to make use of even the meager resources he’s got left. 

It must be Potter’s fault. Kindness is a dangerous thing. 

So is the blasted purple toothbrush - just seeing it makes it too easy to forget where _home_ is. 

Downstairs smells of fresh coffee and toasted bread. Snape doesn’t go into the kitchen – he sits on the couch and stares down on the floor, where a thin quilted blanket is folded up, with a pillow resting atop. He casts a quick wary glance at Potter, who proceeds with pouring coffee and buttering the toast in his usual ‘things are normal’ way, seeming completely unperturbed by the events of the past few days. 

It almost hurts to watch him, but Snape finds it impossible to look away. Once again, he notices far too many details – the wrinkled tee-shirt (looks like Potter had slept in it), the mess of Potter’s hair, and the impossibly straight line of his back – as if he’s still trying to stretch himself taller than humanly possible. 

Potter walks into the living room with two coffee mugs, a slice of toast and jam on top of each. He sits down on the couch and hands one of the mugs to Snape, who receives it without saying a word. 

They eat and drink in silence, and Snape watches Potter’s hands, the way Potter cradles the coffee mug, then sets it down on the floor, then laces his fingers together… He finds himself wondering what Potter’s touch would feel like – now. 

“You all right?” Potter asks eventually.

For a second Snape fears that he’s been caught staring, but Potter barely looks at him, seeming absorbed in his own thoughts. 

“Yes.” 

“Feeling okay and all?”

“Yes.”

“May I?” Before Snape has a chance to respond, Potter turns to him, places his hand between Snape’s shoulderblades, and there’s no longer any need to wonder. 

There’s only a shock at how a touch so light can feel so intense. 

Snape stills, unable to say anything, unable to feel anything but the heel of Potter’s hand against his spine. 

He supposes it’s too late to be embarrassed, but as the events of the past four days fully catch up with him, Snape finds himself mortified beyond all measure – most of all by his own reaction to Potter. 

Potter’s fingers tug at the hem of Snape’s shirt, lifting it, exposing his lower back. Potter draws his wand, casts a few nonverbal spells, and then his hand is withdrawn. 

“No trace of poison,” Potter informs him. “You’re going to be fine.” 

Snape suspects that’s his cue to leave. He knows he needs to go, if for no other reason than simply because being near Potter begins to hurt, hurt more than a mere memory of human touch should. 

“You should stay the weekend, though,” Potter adds suddenly. “Just in case.” 

Snape doesn’t reply at first. He already knows two days in Potter’s home will be unbearable, and yet he can’t help but feel a shameful relief at being asked to stay.

Perhaps he really has forgotten how to be on his own. 

Or, perhaps, it’s just that his entire world has narrowed itself to Potter’s house, and to Potter himself. 

Potter seems to misinterpret his silence.

“I won’t be in your way or anything. In fact, I was just going to go out. I won’t be back till evening. You’ll have the house to yourself. Pretend you’re somewhere else if you like. In a hotel or something… well, a really cheap one.” 

***

Snape spends a good part of the following day sleeping, and a few hours – just roaming the house. Pretend he’s somewhere else – there’s no chance of that. He realizes he’s learned every detail of Potter’s home by now – from the scratches on the hardwood floor to the flaking white paint on the windowsills. From just his first week spent here, he remembers it all with crystal clarity. Better than Azkaban, perhaps, better than all the years before it. 

All of this is painfully familiar, and just as painfully not his; Potter’s home is like a shed skin, and there’s no way of crawling back into it now. It aches to be here, and yet, the thought of leaving is a torment of its own. 

Potter keeps his word and doesn’t come back until it gets dark outside. Tonks is with him, wet, dishevelled, all jerky movements and sharp retorts. 

“Come on,” Potter says mildly. “Kitchen.” 

They are done a few minutes later, and Tonks runs out of the house without looking back. Potter re-enters the living room, then gives Snape a brief smile. 

“How was your day?”

“Uneventful.” Snape considers inquiring about Potter’s day and Tonks’ irritation this evening, but changes his mind almost immediately. More likely than not, Potter will tell him that’s not his business. 

“Care for a drink?” Potter asks.

“Yes.”

Potter walks back into the kitchen to return a minute later with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. 

“That’s all I got left. Rufus drank the rest. And you broke the bottle with absinthe – pity, I was counting on it.” 

“There will be another one.” 

“No doubt.” The corner of Potter’s mouth twitches slightly, as he fills the glasses to the rim. Snape receives the glass from Potter’s hand, and a shiver runs down his spine when their fingers touch briefly. “Red wine is the best though, I find. It helps me fall asleep,” Potter says absently. 

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” Snape asks.

“Just trouble falling asleep – I keep thinking of things. But once I’m out, I sleep like a log. You?”

“I don’t think of things.” 

“Ah. That’s good, I suppose.” Potter frowns, staring into his glass. For a while it looks like he wants to ask something, but then changes his mind. 

Snape watches him drink. 

Watching Potter is endlessly fascinating. It’s the way he twists and turns the glass of wine in his hands – a seemingly careless gesture, and yet, his hand is steady at all times. It’s the way he almost smiles now and then, and the way this ‘almost-smile’ never lingers. It’s the way he carries himself - Potter is quiet to the point of being aloof – and yet, his is a steady, secure presence and Snape no longer can imagine going without it. 

“I should get some sleep,” Potter says softly. “Good night, Snape.” 

Snape finds himself wondering whether he’s imagining things, or whether Potter really did want to ask something. 

* * * 

Sunday is much the same as Saturday.

Potter is gone, Snape roams aimlessly around the empty house, then returns to the bedroom and opens the window. Outside, it’s windy and rainy and grey; soon enough the window sill is damp and there’s nothing to do but watch the water trickle down to the floor. 

_Go home_. Snape finds himself shaking his head, _tomorrow_. 

He no longer thinks it’s the house he will miss, but Potter’s hands. 

***

Potter returns in the evening, looking worn out and miserable. He casts a drying charm on himself and proceeds to raid the kitchen cabinet, finds a potion vial and gulps it down. 

“Pepperup?” Snape asks, watching him from the bottom of the staircase. 

“Yes. Really have no time for cold, or flu, or – ah. Look, I’ve been wondering – do you have some free time over the next few days?” 

“What do you think?” Snape retorts, a bit more tersely than he intended. 

“I imagine that you do, but I didn’t want to presume,” Potter replies, a note of irritation entering his voice, too. “Anyway, I was going to ask you something…” 

“Yes?”

“How much would you bill for a consulting job of sorts? About four hours, but – the hours will be weird. That is – half an hour here, a break of two hours, then another hour somewhere else…” 

“A consulting job,” Snape repeats, mildly amused by the Muggle turn of phrase. “Specifics?”

“We’re trying to select a site for the new school. Something that will be able to house three hundred and fifty students – temporarily. For a year.”

“I see. What are your options?”

“Not that many. We looked at some Muggle properties – reasonably secluded, but…” Harry shrugs. “We’re still not quite ready to start integrating with the Muggle world yet. So I’d prefer something in our world.” 

“Reasonable. Very well. Have you viewed any locations so far?”

“Just two. One was an abandoned Wizarding village near Cardiff, which isn’t bad, but I’m not fond of the location. Too close to the city, and configuring the Unplottability charms will be a bitch. Another – well, that’s a bit crazy, but – the estate left behind by Goyles when they fled the country at the end of the war. It’s bloody huge, it belongs to nobody, and – well, the actual house – it’s bigger than the Malfoy Manor. It could host an army. Tonks really liked it, so did Rufus.” 

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t like it,” Potter says sheepishly. “Something doesn’t feel right. I want you to take a look at it. You may as well stay the night, we’ll head out early in the morning.” 

Snape finds himself at a loss. He doesn’t understand why Potter needs him; for that matter, he doesn’t understand why Potter doesn’t just listen to his own intuition and reject the Goyle estate, no reasons given; certainly nobody would overrule him. But then, Snape decides he doesn’t care to question this strange new way of doing things: discussing, negotiating, reaching decisions by consensus. 

“I’ll assist, although I don’t know how helpful that will be. I trust Lupin has inspected it already?” 

“Yes. He said it smells… different. Though it was just before the full moon, everything smells different then, or so I hear.” Potter turns to look at Snape and gives him a genuine smile. “So, how do you want to get paid?” 

It takes Snape all of five seconds to answer the question.

“A bottle of absinthe and company to share it with.” 

Potter grins from ear to ear. 

“Funny you should mention it.” 

He retreats to the kitchen and returns with a brown paper bag and two glasses. 

“Shall we start now?” Potter suggests. “Get drunk, go to work hung-over. The only thing missing is company.” 

Snape accepts the glass from Potter’s hands. 

_The company’s not missing_ , he wants to say, but the words never come. 

“To the new school,” Potter says. 

“To the new school,” Snape echoes, it’s as good a toast as any.


	16. 16

Morning is hectic – Potter wakes him up at six, they take turns showering, then eat quickly – toast, hot oats, coffee – everything is gone in a matter of minutes. 

Outside, the rain has stopped, the sun is back, but so is the cold; grass, tree branches and even the fence are covered by the thinnest layer of ice. 

They Apparate to the Goyle estate and Snape looks around. 

The dark-grey stone house is enormous, three stories high and seems to stretch forever and ever. It’s large enough to house an army – more than sufficient space for a school. 

The air smells different – there is a subtle sweet note in it that Snape notices right away. Potter watches in confusion while Snape casts a series of spells on the ground under their feet. 

“Poison,” Snape informs him a few minutes later. “The ground has been poisoned. You shouldn’t touch anything here. You will do well to quarantine this area as well, until it can be neutralized.” 

“Oh bloody… I never thought of that. We kept running tests on the actual building, looking for traps, curses and such.” 

“I wouldn’t have thought of this either, if not for the smell.” 

“I can’t smell a thing. Say – are we – I mean, have we been contaminated? Those of us who’ve been here?” 

“Not unless you’ve touched the ground – or any of the vegetation with your bare hands.” 

“How long would it take to neutralize the poison?” 

“A couple of years.” 

Potter scowls. “All right. I suppose that answers the question of whether or not it’s an appropriate location for the school. Let’s get out of here.” 

***

The rest of the day is just a wild goose chase – Apparating from one location to another, inspecting properties to evaluate their suitability for the new school. Nothing seems like it will work, and, when evening comes, Potter is in a foul mood. 

“You mentioned a small abandoned village near Cardiff,” Snape says at long last. “Why don’t we take a look at it again.” 

“I’ve seen it twice!” Potter snaps, then shakes his head. “All right. We might as well, since we’re out anyway.” 

The village looks dreary – a long row of abandoned houses, decrepit, a few inns and stores with broken windows. All around, there’s nothing as far as the eye can see – just the hills, rocks and heather and the evening sky, glowing dark purple in the sunset. 

“Nothing that can’t be fixed in a matter of weeks, you realize that,” Snape says softly, nodding to the dilapidated dwellings. 

“You know… after a week of trying to work things out, this doesn’t look so bad,” Potter concedes. “Small classrooms. Some classes can be held outside, you know. Charms, Defence...”

“True,” Snape says absently, staring into the evening sky that is growing blacker and blacker by the minute. For a moment he’s reminded of the first moments ashore after two and a half years of Azkaban – the sensation of being on the very edge of the world, in the middle of nowhere, with Potter’s hand as the only thing guiding him. 

“Let’s go home,” Potter says softly. “You’ll stay the night, won’t you?” 

***

Another night at Potter’s home seems like a cruel mercy, but Snape is glad to be here. The house is warm, dry, bright in a gentle, soothing kind of way. More to the point, it feels _inhabited_ , the way his home at Spinner’s End never did. 

Snape catches himself watching Potter almost all the time now. 

It’s almost as if Snape’s eyes are drawn to the straight line of Potter’s spine (Potter never slouches), the tilt of his head, the steady movements of his hands when he’s pouring the drinks. 

“We haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Potter remembers suddenly. “Are you hungry?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. Drinks then.” He returns to the sitting room, balancing the bottle of absinthe and two glasses in his hands. A moment later, the bottle is set to rest on the floor by the couch, and Potter hands Snape his glass. “What shall we drink to?” 

“The new school?” Snape offers. 

“We drank to that last night. Let’s drink to Hogwarts, I say. May she get the rest her teachers never had.” 

Snape smiles, appreciating the unlikely toast that emerged from Potter’s lips. Potter himself isn’t smiling; he downs his drink in one long gulp and wipes his mouth. His expression is odd, guilt-stricken. 

“I keep wanting to go back, you know. To apologize,” Potter whispers. 

“To Hogwarts?” 

“Yes. I still can’t believe we did this to her. Just left her there, behind the quarantine field.” 

“You shouldn’t go back. It’s too dangerous.” 

“I know,” Potter concedes. “I said I wanted to, I didn’t say I would.” 

“How long does she have?” 

“The way things are progressing, half a year, at most. Maybe less. Sometimes, I wonder how it will happen – when her time comes. Will she crumble bit by little bit, or just go down all at once, in a spectacular blaze of glory…” 

“Well. For what it’s worth, I vote for the spectacular blaze of glory,” Snape says thoughtfully. 

Potter refills their glasses. 

“Blaze of glory. Let’s drink to that.” Potter smirks mirthlessly. “I’m not very good company, I’m afraid. I think it will only get worse, if we keep drinking.” 

Snape thinks he’s willing to take that chance. 

Potter’s warning aside, it doesn’t get any worse. It turns out that Potter isn’t a miserable drunk, just a really quiet one, and so they proceed to drink in silence. 

Once about a third of the bottle is gone, Potter leans back on the couch and shuts his eyes. He still cradles the empty glass in his hands. 

“Time for bed, I suppose,” Potter says softly. “Do you have everything you need?” 

“Almost,” Snape answers, unable to take his eyes off Potter, finding himself mesmerised just watching the way those fingers lace together, the glass held between the heels of Potter’s hands.

“Well. Feel free to take whatever you need,” Potter’s reply is followed by the tiniest smile. 

Snape turns around and frees the empty glass from Potter’s fingers, rests it on the floor. Potter lets go of it easily and thoughtlessly, and doesn’t move or make a sound when the glass is replaced by Snape’s hand. 

Snape doesn’t do much else. He simply holds his palm against Potter’s, barely touching – the skin-to-skin contact being overwhelming as is. He resists the urge to lace his fingers with Potter’s, to squeeze… 

Eventually Potter opens his eyes. 

“Snape… are you all right?” 

Snape withdraws his hand as if he’s been burned. 

“Wait,” Potter says softly, turning to face him. “What do you want?” 

“Really, Potter,” Snape retorts bitterly, “must I actually say it?” 

Potter stares at him thoughtfully, as if trying to read him. Eventually he shakes his head.

“No. Not if you don’t want to.” 

They are kissing a mere moment later, and Snape isn’t certain who started it, but it feels good – Potter’s dry lips against his mouth, Potter’s fingers on the back of his head. 

Soon enough, Snape discovers that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands – doesn’t know how to touch back without doing something unforgivably awkward, so he doesn’t do anything at all. Potter withdraws from the kiss, and Snape wonders if doing nothing was just as bad as doing the wrong thing – but Potter doesn’t seem put off. 

“Bed or here?” he asks, catching his breath. 

“Bed,” Snape replies. 

Naturally, they never leave the couch. 

They kiss some more. Still not quite knowing how to do this, moving with utter awkwardness, Snape feels like he’s composed of an impossible mess of pointy angles and rough edges, but Potter seems find a way to smooth over all of them. Potter is kissing, touching, sliding his hand under Snape’s shirt, running a flattened palm up and down his spine, then making a move to unbuckle his belt… Potter’s trousers are flung to the floor, Snape’s shirt joins them a moment later; then Potter falls on his back and guides Snape to lie on top of him. 

It feels good, all of it, almost to the point of madness, Snape finds himself arching his back out into Potter’s hands, clinging to Potter’s touch, wanting more and more… 

When Potter’s hands take hold of his shoulders, Snape already knows – nothing will be enough. 

They are face to face and cock to cock when they come, and it’s all over in a matter of minutes. 

Snape isn’t certain how much time passes with them simply lying together, saying nothing at all. 

Potter’s fingers sort through Snape’s hair. Snape’s face is tucked into Potter’s shoulder; he can feel Potter’s heartbeat against his chest. He knows he needs to get up, get dressed, go to bed, but the mere thought of detaching himself from Potter hurts, much like the thought of returning home does. 

“We should get some sleep,” Potter says. “Er, I have to ask – would you rather sleep alone?”

“I don’t know,” Snape says, sitting up slowly. He picks up his shirt from the floor and fumbles with it awkwardly, really not knowing what to do next. 

Potter sits up as well. 

“Well, one way to find out. Let’s just go to bed.” 

Potter jumps off the couch and stalks off to the bedroom, not bothering to pick up his trousers and underwear off the floor. For a while Snape mutely watches his bare legs as he walks upstairs, then shrugs and follows. 

A few minutes later, lying in the dark, Snape listens to Potter’s quiet breathing and ponders what on earth to do with that ‘nothing’s enough’ feeling. He reckons there’s no cause to voice it – as it most certainly has nothing to do with Potter, and everything with himself. More to the point, he doesn’t know what Potter wants, either. Perhaps, it’s just sex and quiet company, and if so – this can be good. 

Soon enough he senses Potter shift under the blankets and move closer. 

“I’ve missed this,” Potter says, sounding just a bit self-conscious. 

“What?” 

“Just… I don’t know.” Potter presses into him, buries his face in Snape’s hair and embraces him. 

Once in Potter’s arms, Snape shuts his eyes. For a moment, the room seems to spin, and he feels like he’s lost his bearings; he’s no longer certain where the door is, or where the window is, or where anything is. There’s no way for him to orient himself, except by the feel of Potter’s body, warm and breathing, next to him. 

Snape falls asleep before the world around him can take another spin.


	17. 17

When Snape wakes up the following morning, he’s alone in bed. Potter’s already awake and in the kitchen, making coffee. They talk about Heatherpoint, the abandoned village soon-to-be school. Potter asks if Snape wants to lead the restoration effort, to consult, to be the headmaster, to teach. Snape answers each suggestion with a negative shake of his head, while watching Potter, who doesn’t seem disappointed or irritated in the slightest. 

“All right,” Potter says, “I’ll be going then. I won’t have time to pick up dinner. Can you do it? Maybe the chicken pot pie they have at the Leaky Cauldron, or – anything, really.” 

There’s no talk of last night, and there’s no talk of Snape returning home. 

More than that, Snape has the distinct impression that’s not going to change in the evening. 

It doesn’t. 

***

They settle into a new routine: Potter leaves in the morning to return late in the evening. They have dinner together, sometimes drinks. They have sex; Snape finds himself genuinely enjoying the awkward fumbling warmth of it; Potter becomes bolder, uses his mouth more, and laughs once in a while, though quickly catches himself – as if wary of doing something wrong. 

Snape wants to tell him not to be – he enjoys hearing Potter’s laughter, but he doesn’t know how to say something like that. All in all, these days they talk a lot less. 

When they do talk, Potter tells Snape the news of the restoration efforts, the plans for the new school. Snape listens and nods, asks questions, but finds himself trying not to take it in: the thought of Hogwarts, standing alone behind the quarantine field, hurts, and so does the knowledge that the others have moved on. He knows it’s irrational – hasn’t he himself all but told Potter to move on? 

Potter doesn’t bring up Hogwarts at all anymore, and Snape reckons it’s his way of letting go. Snape doesn’t ask, and yet, once every few days, he Apparates to the ruins of Hogsmeade and then roams the perimeter of the quarantine field, from time to time casing uncertain glances at the castle behind the shimmering wall of the isolation field. He finds himself wondering how it all happened, trying to understand… and remembering being there with Potter, feeling the tremor of the stone against his palm. 

“I want to understand how exactly it happened,” he tells Potter one of those evenings. 

“You think that understanding will make it easier to let go?” Potter surprises him by asking. 

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” 

“Then you should do it,” Potter says simply. “Research it. Talk to the witnesses.” 

“A pointless waste of time and effort,” Snape says, disgruntled. He knows he needs to be out there, by Potter’s side, doing something useful at Heatherpoint… and yet, the mere thought of the new school brings with it a flood of resentment. “Nothing is irreplaceable,” he adds. 

Maybe this is the thing that galls him: finding out that, at the end of the day, everything is _replaceable_. Or _disposable_. 

Potter doesn’t reply. He leaves the kitchen, to return a minute later with a small piece of parchment that he places on the table in front of Snape. 

“She was there when it happened.” 

Snape stares down and reads off Minerva’s address in Johnstone. 

***

_… Nobody screams. There are just the splashes of blue and the blinding flares of green, and the chaos of the battle that has spread through the Hogwarts hallway._

_Snape recognizes Alecto and Amycus even without seeing their faces – the two are fighting side by side, standing their ground against a crowd of students. Minerva’s Protego shield holds, she’s barking at the students to get out. Her words seem to be lost – it has gone too far…_

_Then everything happens at once: the shield fails and she falls; the students fall back, take a moment to regroup, then strike out. The Carrows make a hasty retreat, but not before the enormous fiery Basilisk emerges from Alecto’s wand._

_Fiendfyre sweeps through the hallway, and someone finally screams. The burning serpent lunges forward, but never reaches its destination: impossibly, the very end of the snake’s tail is caught in the grooves between the stone slabs of the floor. The monster opens its toothy mouth in a helpless roar, and then – the serpentine body twists, deforms, turns liquid. The stone floor of the school soaks up that liquid fire, takes it into itself._

Snape withdraws from the Pensieve receptacle, where the glowing strands of Minerva’s memories are still swimming, chasing each other’s tails. 

“So there you have it,” she says.

Snape lifts his eyes and stares at her, seated across the desk from him. He’s surprised by how much older she looks than he remembers. Her hair has gone fully white, and her lips are pressed together into the thinnest of lines, as if to underscore every word. 

She doesn’t seem inclined to waste words these days – on explanations or even questions: when Snape arrived at her doorstep, they barely exchanged the obligatory _hellos_ , before she got straight to the point of his visit. 

“How many times was Fiendfyre cast in the school?” Snape asks.

“Five. The first time it was contained in Dumbledore’s office. The other times – you saw.” Minerva’s gaze softens slightly. “I’ve said it all along: Hogwarts was protecting her own. You know, she wouldn’t even let us into the Headmaster’s office afterwards – the Gargoyle wouldn’t budge.” 

“I see,” Snape whispers. 

“It seems that we’ve all underestimated the potential of a sentient castle, Severus. None of us knew that she could do something like that. None of us know how to deal with it, either – or if anything at all can be done. As you well know, magical theory says no countercurse to Fiendfyre is possible…” 

“Yes, I realize that.” 

She gives him a long look. 

“You think that something can still be done? Is this why you’re here?” The hope in her voice is almost palpable, and Snape takes a moment before shaking his head. 

“No. I don’t. I just wanted to see how it happened.” 

Minerva flinches visibly at his words.

“All right.” She stands up and points her wand at the Pensieve, lifting a glowing memory-strand out of the bowl. “You can see yourself out.” 

***

“Did it help?” Potter asks him in the evening. 

“Yes,” Snape replies at once, because he knows it should have helped.

It’s not a bad end to come to – as far as Hogwarts concerned; it’s not meaningless or empty, she did what she could to save her own…

And, more to the point, it’s over. It really is. 

At night, Snape lies awake next to Potter, who is sound asleep on top of the blanket. No pajama pants or underwear, but Potter’s tee-shirt is still on, and it makes him look oddly vulnerable – the bare legs, slightly twitching, as if he’s a dog, dreaming of running – and the white fabric of the tee-shirt… 

Snape runs a flattened palm down Potter’s leg. Potter twitches slightly and opens his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. Just wanted to touch you.” As an afterthought, Snape adds, “Sorry to wake you.” 

“’ts okay,” Potter mumbles, turning to lie on his belly. “Something on your mind?” 

“Yes. Take me to Heatherpoint tomorrow.” 

“Uh,” Potter buries his face in the pillow. 

“What? I’m not needed anymore?”

“No, it’s not that.” Potter hesitates for a moment, before explaining, “After you declined, I asked Remus to head the project. He agreed.” 

“And?” Snape asks pointedly. 

“And – nothing,” Potter lets out a deep breath of what seems like relief. “I’ll take you there tomorrow.” 

“Good.” 

They are quiet for a while. Potter shifts on top of the blankets, hugs the pillow, then releases it, then turns to lie on his side. Snape watches him toss and turn and is already beginning to regret waking him, when Potter finally settles next to him and gathers him up into one of his usual, matter-of-fact, nothing-to-it hugs. 

Snape can’t help but marvel at how easy it was to get used to falling asleep next to someone, having someone’s breath at the nape of his neck and someone’s warmth against his back. 

He falls asleep thinking he should be feeling happy.


	18. 18

Heatherpoint greets Snape with dirt-grey clouds, a drizzle of rain and plenty of mud underfoot. Lupin comes out to greet him, and they shake hands, both aware that Potter is watching them from a respectable distance. The others – Snape casts a look around, notices Longbottom, Amelia Bones and a few blindingly orange mops of hair that must be the Weasleys – pay him no heed, absorbed in animated discussion. 

“You can work on restoring the old pub,” Lupin says, leading the way to the decrepit dwelling, with the roof caved in. “I think it will make a good Potions classroom.” 

Snape can’t help but notice that Lupin is tense, clearly expecting to be challenged. Snape is almost sorry to disappoint him: there’s no need for argument. Someday, there will be a new classroom here. It will have to do. 

When Lupin is gone, Snape turns around and tries to pick Potter out of the crowd, but Potter has already left. 

The restoration requires a mix of charmwork and physical labor, and Snape finds himself favoring the latter over the former just because he can. It’s a pleasure in itself – feeling the muscles strain and stretch, feeling that the fingers can do more than just clutch the wand. 

He doesn’t take breaks, and he’s half-finished with restoring one of the walls if not to its former glory, then at least to some state of “decent”, when Lupin returns with a thermos and two mugs, gives the open door a quick rap and calls Snape to lunch. 

“I’m not hungry,” Snape says, and it’s the truth: the smell of cooked noodles and hot cocoa in the air are too entwined with the other smells that abound at Heatherpoint: mildew, ash, rotten wood… and the subtly sweet note that Snape doesn’t care to identify. 

“It’s the dead bodies,” Lupin says matter-of-factly, anticipating Snape’s question. “Six altogether, buried by now.” 

“Lovely,” Snape says dryly. 

“I wouldn’t say so. They were rather decomposed when we got to them.” 

“If you’re attempting to promote appetite, it’s not working.” 

“Sorry.” Lupin opens a thermos and fills one of the mugs. “Drink some cocoa, it’s so disgusting, it’ll make you forget about everything else.” 

They sit down together at an old pub table, and Snape takes a sip of the proffered drink – to quickly discover that Lupin wasn’t lying: the cocoa is lukewarm, watery and leaves a trace of powder on the tongue…. 

Somehow, it tastes just right. 

Snape turns away and stares out the broken window, looks out there, where the heatherland merges with the ocean into a single dark-purplish line. Briefly and faintly, he remembers Azkaban and a time when he no longer imagined being able to see this much open space again. 

_Freedom_ , the strange word crosses his mind. _As much open space as one can handle – and more._

“I want to ask you something,” Lupin says suddenly. 

Snape doesn’t turn to him, half-expecting the question to be about Azkaban, and having no intention of answering. 

“Harry,” Lupin continues without missing a beat. “Is he all right?” 

“He seems fine.” 

“What about Hermione – have you seen her?” 

“Yes, I saw Granger a few weeks ago. She seems fine as well.” 

Watching Lupin out of the corner of his eye, Snape is almost certain he sees relief cross his face. 

Eventually, Lupin departs, leaving the half-filled thermos and one of the mugs behind. Standing in the doorway, Snape watches him for a while and can’t help but notice that, other than giving instructions to people now and then, Lupin keeps to himself and works alone. 

This self-isolation isn’t exactly surprising, given the story Potter had told him; it’s likely that, for a while at least, Lupin will appear only to do the tasks required of him: restore, organize, set the wards on Hogwarts… 

The brief thought of Hogwarts aches, and Snape tries to banish it, tries to focus on what’s here and now. He rests his hand on the door frame, brushing away the trace of ash, and looks out there. He sees the fragile figure of Amelia, held up by the elbow by Longbottom, the ever tight-knit ranks of the Weasleys, and Lupin, standing aside. Snape can’t help but wonder if this small group of misfits has what it takes to make this work. 

More to the point, he wonders how much magic, how much soul they would need to put into this dilapidated village to turn it into something that will really be a school like Hogwarts used to be – living, sentient, ready to protect her own. 

He doubts that whatever they’ve got left among the few of them will be enough.

*** 

When Snape returns to Potter’s house from Heatherpoint, the dinner, preserved by a stasis charm, is waiting for him on the kitchen table. Snape eats the grilled cheese sandwich and the salad, and finds himself feeling touched that Potter had thought of that. 

It’s late. Snape is beyond tired, sore all over, but for some reason he doesn’t want to go to bed. He takes out a bottle of wine and pours himself half an inch’s worth into the glass, then takes a sip. He wants to savour this – being home, being tired, not looking back at anything, not knowing what will come next. 

It almost works. 

When he finally showers and makes it to bed, Potter wakes instantly, places a hand on his back and guides him to lie face down. 

“Whatever grand plans you have, Potter, I hope you’re able to implement them without my involvement,” Snape mutters, finding himself unable to move a hair. 

“I was just going to put some muscle-relaxant into your back,” Potter says. “Otherwise you’ll wake up stiff as a board. And hurting.” 

A moment later, there’s the smell of menthol in the air, and Snape feels Potter’s palms touching his back. Snape lets out a deep breath, giving himself over to Potter’s hands and thinking that just this moment alone would be worth the day of labor, even if all the restoration efforts came to nothing. 

Potter works his back slowly, pressing down along the spine with the heel of his hand, coaxing muscles to relax. Snape barely notices it when he catches Potter running a fingernail across his back, following some invisible line back and forth, and only a moment later he realizes that Potter traces one of his scars. 

For a moment Snape is certain that Potter is about to say something or ask something, but Potter doesn’t, he simply crawls under the blanket and shifts awkwardly to half-lie on top of Snape, face pressed into his back. 

“Severus?” 

“Harry?” 

“You smell nice.” 

“I hardly can take credit for that. I smell like whatever you put on me.” 

“No, not just that. You smell like – heather, rain, and a bit of ocean.” Snape can almost sense Potter’s lips, pressed to his back, stretch into a smile. “Severus, do you realize that, a thousand years from now, you’ll be considered one of the Founders of the new school? You’ll be famous, like… I don’t know. Salazar Slytherin himself.” Snape doesn’t answer, and Potter gives a quiet sigh. “Look, I know it’ll be different. But you’re there. You’re starting it. You’re doing something really huge, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.” 

Snape turns to lie on his side, and Potter slides off him, tosses and turns for a while, eventually settling against his chest. Snape runs a hand through Potter’s hair. 

Potter falls asleep without waiting for a response, not that Snape knows what to say. 

***

Potter’s words turn out to be almost enough. 

Snape’s life seems defined by these “almosts” – they’re almost making good progress at Heatherpoint, Snape almost smiles at the people when he arrives, and he’s almost on speaking terms with Lupin, who asks about Potter and Granger from time to time. They never talk about Hogwarts, although Snape can almost see it in Lupin’s eyes – the longing for something that’s been lost and will never be replaced. 

Tonks’ compulsory visits to Harry’s home continue every Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, she brings the child with her, and the boy and Snape stare at each other with cautious mistrust, while Potter and Tonks conduct their “business”, none of them seeming too happy about it. When, one Saturday, Potter tells her she doesn’t need to come again, because the Order has voted to waive the sanctions, she looks almost happy. 

Potter drinks more than usual that night, and doesn’t invite Snape to join. Snape does anyway, but it seems that alcohol has been wasted on Potter – when he lifts his head and speaks, he sounds fully sober. 

“You know what the bitch of it is, Snape? Nothing would have changed if she just came to me. We’d have run the mission as planned. Bill and Charlie likely would have still died. But we’d have taken the risk knowingly…. And I still don’t know where I went wrong, why she didn’t come to me.” 

“I doubt she was thinking rationally,” Snape muses. 

“No. I suppose not,” Potter agrees and allows Snape to lead him to bed. On their way, they stumble over Potter’s boxes, still stacked up by the wall near the staircase and Snape makes a point of asking how long Potter intends to live out of a box. 

Potter shoots him a disgruntled look, but spends the following day purchasing the furniture, assembling it and arranging it, all on his own. In the evening, when the books are finally put up on the shelves and the boxes are gone, Potter can’t hold back a very tired, but very pleased grin. 

“You were right. It was time.” 

Snape smiles back at him. 

He almost fully feels at home with Potter - even when Granger and Weasley come by, though it doesn’t happen often. 

“Lupin is asking about you,” Snape tells Granger one of those nights. “He wants to know if you’re all right.” 

Granger gives him a startled look. 

“Uh… can you tell him I’m perfectly fine?” 

“I’m not an owl, Miss Granger.” 

Granger’s perfectly beautiful face flushes a perfectly distributed pink. On the couch across from him, Weasley snickers quietly. 

Potter doesn’t smile, just watches Snape intently. “Did he ask anything else?” 

“He asked about you, as well.” 

“Would you please tell him not to worry about me?” 

Snape gives a small shrug at that, but he doesn’t say “no”. 

When Weasley and Granger leave, Potter approaches Snape, still seated on the couch, and rests his hands on his shoulders. Snape shuts his eyes when Potter’s lips touch his forehead. 

They make out on the couch, never bothering to go to bed. Afterwards, Potter sits in the armchair by the hearth, nursing a drink. He’s wearing nothing but his usual white tee-shirt, trousers and underwear are left on the floor by the couch. Snape stares at his bare legs and wants to ask when or how he got into this strange habit of lounging around with tee-shirt on and bottoms off after sex, but when he opens his mouth, another question presents itself. 

“Is there a story behind why you are completely at ease asking Lupin to head the restoration effort at Heatherpoint, but feel the need to pass completely mundane messages through me?” 

Potter shrugs noncommittally. 

“There’s always a story. But you already know his. You can fill in the gaps on your own, I’m sure.” 

Snape bows his head. There’s really no need to elaborate; he understands it well, the need to self-isolate when faced with one’s own danger to others.


	19. 19

The following morning it’s cold; Potter picks a fight with Snape and even manages to force a rain jacket on him. When Snape Apparates to Heatherpoint, he’s glad he didn’t put up a fuss – the downpour is such that the rainwater is ankle-deep, running down the muddy road in rivulets. Any water-repellant spells interfere with the delicate charmwork required for restoration, and the hooded rain jacket is the only thing that’s keeping him dry. 

Lupin gives him an odd look when he notices Snape wearing Potter’s jacket, but says nothing. 

“He’s fine, you know,” Snape says matter-of-factly, not looking in his direction. “Granger, too. Everyone is fine. They wanted me to tell you.” Lupin all but freezes at that. He takes a long moment to consider Snape’s words, and then, a small silver chameleon erupts from Lupin’s wand and scurries away, disappearing behind the wall of rain. 

They continue working in silence for a while, and Snape is the first to breach it. 

“Your Patronus has changed.” 

“Just about everyone’s has,” Lupin answers and tilts his head to wipe his face on the collar of his rain-soaked coat. “Harry’s is a Phoenix, did you know that?” 

Snape shakes his head, and turns at the sound of Apparition. He squints and sees a fragile figure far away from them, barely visible in the rain. 

Lupin sees her as well and takes off abruptly, running without looking back. 

Snape leans against the wall of the old pub and watches as Tonks takes a hesitant step forward, then another one. In a few more giant leaps he closes the distance between them and falls on his knees into the mud, his arms reaching to her waist, his head pressing into her belly. She almost loses her balance, but takes hold of his shaking shoulders to steady herself. Snape can’t tell if they’re talking, but as he watches them, she sees her pull him up to his feet, and they Disapparate without saying a word to anyone. 

Snape turns around and continues his work. 

A good half hour later, Longbottom approaches him, a small crowd following him, but keeping a respectable distance. 

“Um. Professor Snape,” Longbottom says hesitantly, “we are sort of wondering…” 

“Yes?”

“Well, seeing that the team leader is gone, would you like to take charge for the rest of the day?” 

Snape finds himself smiling. 

“I could do that.” 

“All right. What are your instructions?” 

Snape surveys the small group of people in front of him, some of them taking a few steps closer. 

“Everyone go home. Take a vial of Pepperup and a hot shower. Return tomorrow morning.”

His words are met with sighs of relief and cracks of Apparition, as the crowd disperses. Longbottom is the last to leave the site. 

Left alone at Heatherpoint, Snape walks into the pub, casts a drying spell onto himself and sits down in one of the old chairs that he never bothered to remove. The rain outside seems to be getting stronger, gushes of wind make the broken windows rattle in their frames, but none of that matters anymore. Snape shuts his eyes and allows himself a few minutes of perfect stillness before heading back home. 

He thinks briefly of Potter’s new Patronus – that he’d never seen. He reckons it’s telling that Potter’s happiest memory would be of a time when Dumbledore was still alive and guiding the Order. Snape knows he can’t even begin to guess how much weight is on Potter’s shoulders these days, or what it is that keeps him going… 

He wonders if Potter will ever tell him all that. Maybe, in time – Potter seems to be selective about what he shares, careful not to tell too much at once, as if afraid to overload him. 

Snape turns around in the chair at the sound of footsteps. Lupin and Tonks are standing in the doorway of the pub, together; very obviously _together_. 

“Where’s everyone?” Lupin asks. 

“I sent them home,” Snape replies instantly and takes a moment to enjoy the look of bewilderment on Lupin’s face. 

Lupin shakes his head, looking very canine in the way he does that, and then gives a hoarse bark of a good-natured laugh. 

“That’s fine,” he says. “It’s miserable, and we weren’t making any progress. Well, I suppose, it’s … ” 

“Snape,” Tonks interjects quietly, before Lupin has a chance to finish. “Will you join us for lunch?” 

***

Diagon Alley, as Snape soon discovers, is not in bad shape, at least compared to Heatherpoint or Hogsmeade. It had taken a few blows, but the shops and the cafes are still there, some rebuilt, some just patched up. Gringotts is still standing proud, the one constant thing in this strange new world. 

The Leaky Cauldron is clean, cozy and, most important, warm. The three of them head to a small table by the window. Tom, who is still here, and who seems absolutely unperturbed by the world changed all around him, brings beef stew (the only item on the menu) and butterbeer. 

They talk some. Snape half-expects the conversation to turn to either Azkaban or Hogwarts, but Lupin has too much tact to start asking about Azkaban, and Hogwarts is still off the table as a subject for discussion, so they discuss Heatherpoint instead. 

“We are at a standstill,” Lupin explains. “At this point, we need to create a Nexus – Snape, I’m sure you know what that is?” 

Snape does, but by the look on her face, Tonks doesn’t, and Snape answers.

“A focal point, from which all school wards will extend and will be sustained. It’ll need to be reinforced regularly, until such a time that the school is finalised.” 

“Correct,” Lupin nods, and turns to Tonks, while explaining: “It’s actually unknown who had set up the Nexus at Hogwarts a good millennium ago. Some say it was Godric Gryffindor; others insist it was Rowena. Most sources agree that the first headmaster of Hogwarts was the one to establish the Nexus, and in fact, there’s a theory that whoever sets up the Nexus will automatically be acknowledged by the school as the headmaster.” 

“So what’s the problem?” Tonks asks, frowning. 

Lupin smiles unhappily. 

“Ah yes. Here’s the catch: somehow, we aren’t able to establish the Nexus. None of us can. We tried and tried, and it’s like the earth rejects our attempts to bind our spells to it.” 

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Snape muses. “It’s just a set of spells, designed to …” 

“Then maybe you should try it,” Lupin seems to have lost his patience. “See if you do any better.” 

Snape shrugs. “I suppose I can give it a try.” 

*** 

They return to Heatherpoint after lunch. Snape takes a good hour to review the materials on Nexus creation, Lupin and Tonks doing nothing to hurry him. 

“We could try tomorrow,” Lupin offers, but Snape shakes his head. 

“It’s straightforward and I don’t foresee any difficulties. Where do you want the Nexus?” 

It has stopped raining by now and the air is fresh and crisp. The sky has cleared, showing a tiny patch of blue. 

Lupin leads them to a spot by what seems to be a modest meeting hall and points to a spot on the ground near the doorway.

“Here.” 

“Fine.” 

Snape is certain that it’s all going to be very anticlimactic, because, really, there’s nothing to it. 

When the first spell emerges from his wand, the feedback from it results in him being thrown backwards onto the ground. He blacks out a moment later, still not understanding what happened. 

When he comes to, Tonks is shaking his shoulder, and Lupin points his wand at him, clearly ready to start spouting every single healing spell in his arsenal. 

“I’m fine,” Snape mutters, pushing Tonks’ hand away and making an effort to sit up. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Lupin says. “Well – the ground rejected your spell, but it has never been so… violent about it.” Lupin’s lips quirk slightly. “It seems you inspire the worst in everyone, Severus.” 

“Lupin. Do shut up.” Snape touches the back of his head and when he withdraws his fingers, they’re bloody. He then stares at the spot on the ground where he’d directed the spell; there’s a small crater there – as if from a miniature natural disaster. “I think I want to try again.” 

Despite their protests, he stands up, and makes several more attempts. The result is much the same every time, except now Snape is prepared and manages to brace himself for the fall a bit better. Still, at the end of the hour, there’s no success and no Nexus. 

“All right, that’s enough,” Lupin says finally, waving for Snape to stop. “The number of holes in the ground you’ve created is more than sufficient. The place is beginning to look like it’s been bombed.” 

Snape gives him a disgusted look, but doesn’t argue. He wonders why on earth his Nexus spell is met with such violence from Heatherpoint. He voices the question out loud, and Tonks sighs, giving him a hapless shrug. 

“Maybe it doesn’t think we’re good enough. I mean – maybe it reckons that none of us are strong enough to establish proper wards, and there’s no point in setting up a Nexus here.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” Snape dismisses the idea quickly. Too quickly. 

“Maybe she’s right,” Lupin says morosely. “We’re all tired, Snape. None of us have what it takes to…” his voice trails off, and he waves his hand. “Well, for now we’ll just have to be satisfied with what we can do. Let’s take you home.”


	20. 20

They insist on Apparating him to Harry’s house and leading him to the door. When he enters the house and collapses on the couch, Harry drops whatever he’s doing in the kitchen and walks into the living room, takes one good look at him and asks:

“Have you been _fighting?_ ” 

“No,” Snape mutters, all of a sudden feeling a bit like a schoolchild, called on the carpet before a teacher. 

“And you’re bleeding.” 

“I’m fine. There was a minor accident.” 

Potter sighs, tells him to sit still and examines his injury, finally declaring it to be superficial. 

Snape allows himself a half-irritated 'I told you so', and then proceeds to tell about the fiasco at Heatherpoint. Potter listens attentively, not interrupting.

“Well,” Potter says when Snape is done, “maybe Tonks is right. Nexus is all about will, loyalty and power - and as far as power is concerned, we’re all depleted. I don’t think any of us has what it takes to set up a Nexus… Seriously, I say you should just let it be for a while. Another time.” 

“Another time,” Snape echoes softly, leaning against the back of the couch and shutting his eyes. He permits himself to drift for a while, thinking of nothing in particular and all at once. 

Power: Snape wonders just how much magical power is actually required to set up a Nexus, and whether there’s anything in the entire Wizarding world that can aid them. 

Power: something about this word keeps gnawing at him with quiet persistence, until he finally remembers. 

“Potter?” 

“Yes?”

“That’s it. Power. The most powerful wand in the world – Dumbledore’s. The Elder Wand.” 

Potter sits on the couch next to him and gives him a puzzled look. 

“I don’t follow you.”

Snape winces. He remembers his guesswork back in Azkaban with crystal clarity, but explaining his train of thought to Potter is somehow a more difficult task than he’d imagined. Nonetheless, he gives it a try. 

“I believe that whoever kills its master becomes the master of the wand. If that is accurate, I should be the master of the Elder Wand even now….” 

“Oh.” Potter shakes his head. “No.” 

“What do you mean, 'no'?”

“We’ve researched it when we were tying up all the loose ends. The Mastery of the Wand doesn’t work that way. Whoever disarms the master, gains control of it… so, technically, after the night on the Tower, Draco became the master of the wand.” 

“Is he still?” Snape asks. 

“No. Nobody is, really. The wand was destroyed in Fiendfyre – it was brought to Dumbledore’s office after the duel, and then…” 

“I see,” Snape whispers bitterly. A heaviness descends on his shoulders with Potter’s words, and he can’t understand it. His entire face is flushed with shame, and he can’t understand the source of it, either. He can’t bear to look at Potter and meet his eyes.

“Severus? Are you all right?” Potter asks softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. 

“Fine. Let me be for a few minutes. I’m fine.” 

_Fine_ , he repeats to himself, _fine_ ; and the more he does, the more the pressure builds inside, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“I’m going to bed,” Potter says matter-of-factly. “Come join me when you’re ready.” 

“Yes. I will do that.” 

When Potter is gone, Snape remains on the couch, barely able to move. He still doesn’t understand why the story of the Elder Wand has affected him so. It’s certainly not thwarted ambition or wounded pride, it’s something else, something that continues to elude him. He doesn’t understand why being near Potter suddenly became unbearable, and why the walls of Potter’s home seem to have closed in on him. 

When morning comes and Potter re-enters the living room, there’s tension in the air. Potter asks something, Snape nods automatically, unable to piece two words together. 

When Harry’s hand touches his shoulder, Snape almost flinches away, and Potter withdraws his hand. 

“You need to go home,” Harry guesses, his voice calm. 

“Yes. I do.” 

He doesn’t look up, not sure what he’s more afraid to see in Potter’s eyes – disappointment, or lack of it. 

“Okay,” Potter says mildly. “Don’t be a stranger though. Drop by whenever you want to.” 

“I will do that.” 

*** 

Spinner's End greets him with a stack of post accumulated at his doorstep and a silence that seems almost deafening. Snape roams the empty house aimlessly, not sure what to do with himself, now that the world seems to have collapsed all around him like a house of cards. Then again, maybe all of his journeying and all of his trying since the moment of release from Azkaban has been nothing more than that – just erecting a house of cards. 

Azkaban, Albus, Heatherpoint, Nexus, Hogwarts… His thoughts are a sore mess. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it all, and then his mind goes blank. The only thing left is instinct, and being drawn back _there_. 

Home. 

Apparition to Hogsmeade is a matter of seconds, a walk to the quarantine field surrounding Hogwarts – a matter of minutes. Snape finds the spot where Potter had originally created a gap in the field without any difficulty. Even reopening that gap is an easy task, and soon enough Snape is standing in the doorway of the school, placing his palm against the stone.

He could be delusional, but he is certain that he feels the magic of the school reach out to him. 

“I understand now,” he says, pressing his forehead to the stone wall. “Failure to establish the Nexus wasn’t a question of power. It was a question of loyalty… none of us could ever be loyal to the new place, because none of us let you go. Me least of all. ” 

The school is silent, but somehow Snape has the impression he’s been heard. 

As delusional as he might be, he still remembers about the Fiendfyre trapped in the stone, and that the school’s days—if not hours—are numbered. Yet Snape continues to roam the darkened hallways, and every step he takes deeper and deeper into the bowels of the abandoned school seems to seal the deal even further. 

He isn’t going to leave. 

Eventually he stops by the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. He remembers Minerva’s words about the school closing the office off and not letting anyone in, but he has a vague inkling that this restriction will not apply to him. 

_Let me in._ He doesn’t say the words, and yet the gargoyle turns obediently, allowing passage to the office. 

Inside, it’s as could be expected – a thick layer of cinder and ash on the floor, fire-scorched walls and ceiling… The hearth is equally damaged: it is charred, some stonework has began to crumble and the grating of the fireguard is molten, twisted, deformed. 

Of former life, there’s nothing left. 

Somehow, it seems fitting to stay here. 

Snape flicks his wand to banish the soot from the floor and sits down, leaning against the wall. 

With his entire body, he can still feel that – the stone’s struggle to contain the cursed fire, the castle’s weariness, the bitterness at being abandoned. He can sense something else – an imperceptible movement in the air, a silent note that sounds like compassion. 

_You should leave._

These words, addressed to him, are not spoken by anyone, but he can hear them just the same. 

“No.” 

_It’s almost over._

“I know that.” 

_Why do you stay?_

Snape wonders if he can explain this, even to himself. 

A part of him thinks that, having failed to protect the school entrusted to him, the least he can do is share in its destiny. 

Or, perhaps, it’s the simple fact that what he did two years ago, he did for the sake of Hogwarts, even though it all came to nothing and ended up being meaningless. That out there for him there’s regret, there’s the shame of failure, and feeble attempts to recover something that will never be again. Here, at the brink of destruction, his life entwined with that of Hogwarts, there’s none of that. 

He barely notices when he falls asleep, feeling safer and more at home than he can remember. 

In his dreams, there’s the tremor of stone, ready to crumble to dust. There’s fire, too.

None of that is enough to wake him.


	21. 21

Snape wakes up to the smell of smoke and the unmistakable odour of wet, burned leaves. He isn’t sure what time of day it might be. The window is covered by a thick film of paper-white ash, but, as far as he can tell by the meagre diffused light making it into the window, it’s morning. 

Snape rests his palm against the stone floor and sighs. Something feels different, he can sense that. It is as if some sort of monumental change has taken place – though he can’t fathom what that might be. Yet, even not knowing, he is _aware_ of that change – the school feels stable, quiet… for the lack of better word, it feels _normal_ again.

He stands up, stretches, wincing against the ache in his back from sleeping on the floor, then heads toward the door and out of the office. 

With each step he takes, he becomes more and more confident that, somehow, a miracle has taken place – it no longer feels like walking on thin ice, expecting it to part underfoot at any moment. It feels fine, normal, so bloody normal. 

When Snape makes it down the staircase and into the hallway, he stops in his tracks, when he sees Potter, sitting on the floor across from the office, knees brought up to his chest. 

At the sound of Snape’s footsteps, Potter lifts his head. His face is stained with tears. 

“Severus,” Potter breathes out, rising to his feet in one abrupt movement and closing the distance between them. “We searched all over for you. This bloody office is the only place the school wouldn’t let me in… I didn’t know whether you were here or not… Fuck. I thought you were dead.” 

Snape places his hand on Potter’s shoulder, finding himself at a loss for words.

“Not dead,” he says finally, drawing Potter closer and closer to himself, until their foreheads touch. Potter grabs his arm and squeezes. 

They are quiet for a long time. Once again, Snape doesn’t know what to do. There’s an urge to apologise, to wipe the wetness from Potter’s face, to tell him that he needn’t worry – but all they do is just stand there, not moving, holding on to each other. 

Eventually Potter speaks up. 

“I went to your place last night. I thought – maybe … I should have asked you to stay.” Snape shakes his head at those words, but Potter doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to talk. “When you weren’t there, I headed to Hogwarts. When I got to the perimeter, I could tell you went in, but by the time I arrived, it was too late.” 

Never letting go of Snape’s arm, Potter starts moving, guiding him down the hallway and toward the exit. 

“Do you know what happened?” Snape asks. 

“The entire Auror department knows,” Potter says tiredly. “It was the strangest thing I have ever seen. At first, just a slight quiver ran along the school walls, and then… the Fiendfyre erupted, streams upon streams of it. It was as if the school just… found a way to release it. Let it all go, gave it up.” 

“Oh.” Snape is too stunned to offer anything else. Then he asks the next most reasonable question, “Where did all the Fiendfyre go?” 

“It was just raging under the dome of the quarantine field. It burned everything all around the school – the grass, the trees… Then it just exhausted itself and died.” 

When they make it outside, Snape is stunned by what he sees: burned grass, flakes of ash floating in the air, charred tree-stumps where tall trees used to stand. He barely has the time to take in the full extent of desolation, distracted by a small Auror unit approaching them, headed by Moody and Scrimgeour. 

“You’re completely and utterly insane,” Moody spits, but Snape is certain he hears something like approval in his voice. “How did you do it? How did you know it would work – whatever it is that you did?” 

“I don’t know what I did,” Snape says honestly. 

“How can you not know?!” Moody challenges, and Snape scowls at him. 

Potter takes Snape by the elbow. 

“Tell you what: we’ll debrief in the afternoon. Once the structural integrity analysis is complete…” 

“It’s as good as complete,” Scrimgeour says, shaking his head. “Some restoration work will be needed, but the school is fine. Stable. Once it released all of the fire that had been trapped inside – well, all we can say is it’s… it’s going to be all right now.” Scrimgeour’s scarred face is wrought with emotion. “Harry… Snape… I don’t know what to say.” 

“You could say you won’t prosecute for illegal breach of quarantine wards,” Moody says grimly, as if he himself isn’t entirely sure that some sort of sanctions aren’t required. 

“Of course we won’t, what nonsense is that?” Scrimgeour waves him off. “But I do want to know what you did… Very well, afternoon it is.” 

“Let’s get out of here,” Potter says, guiding Snape towards the Apparition boundary. 

***

It feels strange to return to Potter’s home; Snape can hardly credit that he was gone less than a day – it seems like an entire lifetime has passed since yesterday morning when he’d left for Spinner’s End. 

“So how did you do it?” Potter asks him. They are seated on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, and Snape keeps staring at Potter, not failing to notice how weary his face is, and how guarded the voice. 

He knows that it is on his account that Potter is guarded, and isn’t sure what to say to make this even marginally less awkward. In the end, he says it like it is.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, Potter. I wasn’t… going in to save Hogwarts. I just went there. To stay.” 

“To die,” Potter says flatly. 

“Yes.” 

Potter nods, not surprised. 

“But the she didn’t let you. She acknowledged you as the Headmaster, too.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.” 

“She let you inside the Headmaster's office,” Potter points out. “It was off limits to everyone else. And then – when she saw that you weren’t leaving, she must have realized that the only way to save you was by saving herself. She found a way to do the impossible. Release the curse, let it go.”

“You’re anthropomorphizing,” Snape says the only thing that comes to mind, the events of the last night so far beyond his ken that he doesn’t know how to process them. 

“Maybe,” Potter says, “but that’s what it feels like to me. You know, all in all, from what we’ve seen, I think Hogwarts goes as the Headmaster does.” 

“I’m sorry?” Snape finds himself losing track of Potter’s train of thought completely and hopelessly. 

“What I mean is - the school seems to take onto herself the personality… or imprint of the soul of her Headmaster. I think, over the last two years, she just did what you would have done.” 

Potters words sting unbearably. 

“What I would have done,” Snape repeats with venom, stunning himself, and even Potter, it seems. “We’ll never know what I would have done. We’ll only know what I didn’t do.” 

Potter meets his gaze without flinching away. 

“Is that what it’s all about?” he checks. “I don’t mean – you going to Hogwarts. I mean – you standing apart from everyone else all the time, like you aren’t really with us, just lost in a world of your own?” 

“I haven’t got a world of my own,” Snape whispers, more to himself than anyone else. Even as those words leave his mouth, he knows them to be false. He does have a world of his own, a world of “might have been’s” and “should have done’s,” and fading hopes of reclaiming at least some meaning that his actions once held. 

“Do you know why I didn’t die in Azkaban?” Snape asks. When Potter gives a negative shake of his head, Snape elaborates. “At first, it was hope of getting out and doing my duty. Soon enough, I realized that wasn’t happening.” Potter doesn’t say anything, and Snape continues. “When all hope of being useful was gone, there was something else left. As far as my fragmented and meagre knowledge of the facts allowed me to guess, I was the Master of the Elder Wand. I believed that, with my death, the mastery of the Wand would go to Voldemort.” 

Potter nods again, understanding sparking in his eyes. 

“You held on, so that Voldemort wouldn’t gain the power of the Elder Wand.” 

“Yes.” Snape smiles bitterly. “And then, yesterday, I realized that even that was … quite unnecessary. The Wand was already gone, without me even knowing it. Back in Azkaban, there really was no reason for me to hang on to life, to try to survive at any cost… ” Snape shakes his head. “And yet – I did. It’s almost as if I simply fabricated a reason for myself to keep going, to keep living. Even when there was no need for that. No need for me.” 

“Don’t we all do that?” Potter says mildly. “Make up our own reasons for living. Sometimes those reasons are strange, sometimes even downright silly, but they do keep us going. Hermione, Ron and I used to think up things to keep each other going. To keep ourselves going. At one point, we imagined there would be a house in Greece, with the sea at the doorstep, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plenty of sunshine… we never ended up going, of course, but the thought was nice.” 

Snape nods absently. 

“That’s – quite different though, you must see that. You were out there, actually fighting. I, on the other hand…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but there’s no need, Potter seems to understand. 

“I suppose it’s unavoidable that you feel displaced,” Potter offers cautiously. “Or maybe - disinherited. Having all the key events in the last two years just pass you by.” 

“Well,” Snape mutters with a shrug, “I suppose it’ll take some time – to make peace with being useless. Being nobody’s man in the end, killing Dumbledore for no good reason at all.” 

Throughout the entire conversation, Potter keeps staring at him, not looking away once. 

“It’d be a pity if you made peace with something like that,” he says calmly. “Seeing that it’s not true. At one point I felt that way too. You know, that night, Dumbledore and I went to a cave to get one of the Horcruxes. I fed him poison. I almost killed him there – and then I found out that the Horcrux we recovered was a fake.” 

There’s a tightness in his throat, and Snape can’t say anything to Potter’s words. Potter continues to speak. 

“But I think – in the end, Dumbledore died knowing he’s leaving behind people who were willing to do whatever it takes to win. _His_ people. I think that was really important to him. And –” Potter pauses briefly before continuing to talk. “If I learned anything at all in the last two years, it’s that we weren’t just _his_ people. We are each other’s people, too, and nobody is expendable. There are no spare men here, no cannon fodder. We all walked together to end this war. Some got shot down before others, and there were mistakes, and miscalculations, but in the end… we were all in it together. I really do think we won because there were so many of us willing to do whatever it took. And – you know. Seeing how we came all this way together, it’d be a shame if we didn’t stick together afterwards.” 

Snape shuts his eyes, allowing those words to sink in. Snape thinks, belatedly, that it is only now that he fully understands why the Order has rallied itself around Potter. Potter, more than any other person Snape ever knew, somehow has the power to create _meaning_. Make _his_ people believe that all their miscalculations, mistakes, frailties and failures can somehow be absorbed into the greater whole of this one family that they are all a part of, the family that will never let go of them. 

Two wasted years, two lost years of life – could it be so easy to part with them, to release them, simply by giving them up… to him? 

_Take them_ , Snape wants to say. _Do with them what you will_. 

In the end he says nothing at all. When he reaches for Potter, and their hands touch, Potter smiles.


	22. 22

Once again, they never make it to the bedroom. Potter is kissing him deeply, and Snape’s eyes are shut. He lets his hands roam lazily, allowing himself to touch, to stroke, to feel – fully, and there’s no awkwardness or fear of doing the wrong thing. Even if he does, so what? It’ll just get absorbed into the great big glorious mess of their life. Somehow, it’s easy to believe that. 

And there are no more thoughts after that, just lips against lips, and skin against skin, and Potter inside him, so deep – it could almost hurt, but it doesn’t, with Potter, nothing ever does anymore.

When they are done, Snape throws his arms around Potter and holds him close. Potter rests on top of him for a while, face tucked into Snape’s shoulder. 

“What a way to start the day,” Potter murmurs. “I haven’t slept all night, and you – I can’t believe you slept through Fiendfyre raging all around you.” With a tired yawn, Potter actually drifts off to sleep, right on top of him, without changing position.

Potter’s breathing is even and deep, as if nothing troubles him now that he’s settled against Snape’s chest. 

Snape runs his hand through Potter’s hair, and allows himself to enjoy this – the weight of the strong, young body on him, the warmth of Potter’s flushed neck against his chest.

Potter turns in his sleep ever so slightly. He shifts to lie on his side, the top of his head pressing up against Snape’s chin. 

Snape can’t help but notice that Potter is still holding on to the odd habit of keeping the tee-shirt on, while having discarded boots-socks-trousers, looking oddly vulnerable this way, looking almost fragile… 

Snape slides his hand under Potter’s tee-shirt, strokes his chest and pauses when the tips of his fingers encounter the unmistakable ridges and rills of scarring. Potter’s breathing hitches.

Snape doesn’t remove his hand. He can feel Potter’s heartbeat, steady and even, against his palm.

Potter stirs and makes a move to sit up. Without a word he lifts up his arms, allowing the tee-shirt to be pulled off. A moment later, Snape finds himself staring at the lattice of gruesome scars running down from upper chest to abdomen, crisscrossing each other. 

“Malfoy Manor,” Potter explains. “We got Remus and Teddy out, but...” 

“You yourselves got captured.”

“Well, yes. Me, Ron and Hermione.” Potter pulls away, and Snape lets him, watching him slide to the very edge of the couch and sit with his knees brought up to his chest. “Ron got all the Crucios. He’s still a bit twitchy, but getting better.” Potter casts a quick, guarded glance at Snape. “Hermione… all her scars are on her face, I’m sure you noticed the beauty charm.” 

“I didn’t,” Snape whispers numbly. “I just wondered how a human face could look so flawless.” He also wonders what else he’s missed. 

“She is to me, and Ron… and always will be.” Potter shrugs helplessly. “But she got tired of people staring all the time. It’s distracting, she says.” 

“No wonder Lupin keeps agonizing over you – and her, wonders how you are, but never comes close,” Snape says the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“Yes,” Potter murmurs, his face tucked into his knees. “I tried to talk to him – but it was like talking to a wall. He just managed to convince himself that it was all his fault somehow – getting captured, what Tonks did to save him and Teddy, what happened to the three of us later… ” Potter shakes his head. “Though I understand he’s coming around. Whatever you said to him at Heatherpoint must have made a difference.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Snape mutters. “Just said you and Granger are doing all right.” Then adds, as an afterthought, “The fact that I was wearing your jacket that morning might have helped reinforce the point.” 

Potter actually laughs at that and hugs his knees again. “It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so sad. How the weirdest, smallest things get through to someone, when everything else fails.” 

For the longest time, they’re both silent. Snape wonders how much more Potter hasn’t been saying, how much more he wants to say but keeps holding back. 

“Harry,” Snape says finally. “Are you… all right?” 

“I am. Mostly. I just…” Potter stammers, “I just get so scared when I think about what happened back there. I couldn’t see Hermione, the way they held us chained. But then, Draco walked in and I saw him looking at her. And then …. Then, he fainted, just passed out where he stood, and I nearly broke my neck, just trying to see her. And I still couldn’t.” Potter shakes his head ruefully. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“What happened next?” Snape asks. 

“I actually… don’t remember. Hermione tells me that I kept saying over and over again, _we’re going to be all right, it’s all right_ , until finally Ron screamed at me to shut up. Then – she says I did shut up, and after a while Ron told me to say it again.” Harry lets out a brief chuckle. “It’s all mostly a blur. But I do remember that three days later there was a full-fledged assault on the Manor. Everyone came for us and they got us out. I – for all my saying that it was going to be all right, I couldn’t believe they pulled it off. Moody and Remus led the attack.” Harry lets out a deep breath. “We debriefed afterwards. I was surprised – that they did it. It was very risky. But Moody said – they were just doing things my way now, as in not leaving anyone behind, ever. I guess, in the end, I couldn’t argue with that.” 

“I see,” Snape says. “I want to hear more. About what happened while I was gone. What you did. What everyone did.”

“I – er, I’ll tell you everything, of course,” Potter says, giving him another guarded glance. “I just…” 

“Just – what?” Snape probes. 

“I guess I’m a bit afraid about what you’re going to say,” Potter admits, hesitant. “You know, I tend to second-guess myself a lot. In the end, I was doing things my way – not the way Moody would have done it, not the way Dumbledore would have done it… It was really important to me that we never left anyone behind. That we never wrote anyone off. I think because of that, it took us so long to end the war. More than two years since Dumbledore’s death – too long. I keep thinking, if I had done things differently, if I had been more…”

“Ruthless?” Snape supplies.

“Yes. Maybe – the war would have ended sooner. Maybe fewer people would have died in the end. Sometimes, they say, you have to sacrifice people for the greater good, and I never quite learned how to do that.” 

“You might be right,” Snape muses. His eyes half-shut, he sees only Potter’s outline at the other end of the couch, all sharp angles, curled into himself, as if trying to will himself to disappear. “I can only speak for myself, Potter. And though it may be a rather selfish thing to say, I, personally, would rather die, believing that I hadn’t been written off, than survive, knowing that I had been.” 

He opens his eyes to watch Potter, and sees tension recede slowly from his posture and relief show on his face. For a long minute Potter seems at a loss for words, until finally he offers: 

“It really means a lot, you know. I guess I didn’t realize how much I wanted to hear that – from you.” 

“Why?” Snape asks, curious despite himself. “Why should my opinion matter so much?” 

“I don’t know,” Potter says quietly. “It just does. Maybe because you were my biggest mistake.” 

“And you - mine,” Snape says, allowing himself to smile. 

Potter doesn’t answer, but Snape is certain he seems a tiny smile on his face. 

A moment later, Potter jumps off the couch and begins to pick up the clothes scattered all over the floor. Promptly, Snape’s shirt lands on his chest, followed by socks. 

“You should get ready. Get dressed. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.” 

“What’s the hurry?” Snape asks. “I thought you said we’d debrief with the Order in the afternoon.” 

“I changed my mind,” Potter says, shrugging. “There’s no point in waiting. Let’s just get it over with, talk to everyone, explain everything that happened last night, and get started on bringing Hogwarts back to order …” Still naked, a heap of clothes pressed against his chest, Potter turns and grins. “Sleep is for wimps, right?” 

“Apparently so,” Snape says dryly, and Potter chuckles at that. 

***

Ten minutes later, Snape is ready and fully dressed, and Potter heads out to shower. 

“Let the others know they can come over,” Potter says. “Send out a Patronus, if you don’t mind – I’ll be just a few minutes.” 

“Take your time.” 

Snape walks through the kitchen and the darkened hallway and opens the door. 

The daylight, sharp and strong, nearly blinds him. The morning air is fresh and crisp. A fresh dusting of frost, thicker and fuller now, covers the ground. The rowan tree, coated in pure white, stands motionless – as if no berry or twig has moved since the last time Snape saw it.

He sits down on the porch and pulls out his wand. 

“Take your time”, indeed; he almost regrets he didn’t tell Potter to be quick instead. 

It shocks him to realize that he’s actually impatient to get on with this. To get out there, to speak to the others, and cross that final distance that separates him from the rest of his life. To, once again, see Granger’s inhumanly beautiful face, shake Scrimgeour’s mutilated hand, see Lupin and Tonks standing side by side. To see Potter’s face shine with excitement at the thought of coming back to Hogwarts. 

Snape draws his wand, and he’s about to conjure his Patronus when he remembers Lupin’s words, _“Just about everyone’s has changed.”_

His must have changed, too; why should he be any different? He feels that change in his blood and his bones, in the way the yet unspoken words coalesce together on the roof of his mouth. 

He lifts his wand and he is almost certain that, a moment later, he’ll see the silver glow of the stormy petrel’s wing against the blue winter sky.


End file.
